


A Silver Knight

by TaraethysHolmes



Series: A Pair of Eagles [1]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, M/M, Paternal Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-06-14 01:31:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 186,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15377730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraethysHolmes/pseuds/TaraethysHolmes
Summary: “All mankind... being all equal and independent, no one ought to harm another in his life, health, liberty or possessions.” - John LockeGreg Lestrade lives in District Ten with his adopted son, John Watson. They have a hard life, yes, but it's a good life. That is, until Sally Donovan's sick younger brother Alex is Reaped, and all Greg can do is volunteer to save not just Alex, but Sally as well. He finds himself in the Capitol, preparing for the Games, at which he will have to face down the Careers, a pack of deadly killers who have trained for this their whole lives.Amongst them is Mycroft Holmes; the Great Tactician.





	1. Beginnings

_“All mankind... being all equal and independent, no one ought to harm another in his life, health, liberty or possessions.” - John Locke_

Pale light filtered through the draughty room, the fabric draped across the window not nearly enough to block out the harsh, humid sunlight. Next to Greg, John shifted in his sleep, burying his nose deeper in the older teen’s armpit and pulling his toes in from outside the covers. 

Greg hummed, pulling the tiny nine-year-old more tightly against him. John sighed in happiness, pulling his feet into his body and pressing them against Greg’s shins. 

His toes were freezing, of course. 

Greg yelped, shooting upright. 

‘Fuck!’ he swore, his breath coming in sudden, harsh pants. Next to him, John scrambled upright, his navy eyes shooting wide. ‘Shit, John, your feet are so cold! What happened to your socks?’ 

‘I los’ them,’ replied the small blond, looking down at the toes that had begun to emerge from the blanket, a regretful look on his face. ‘They got holes anyway.’ 

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ asked Greg, raising an eyebrow at the nine-year-old. 

‘Cause,’ replied John, ‘I thought you’d get mad.’ 

‘I’m not gonna get mad over that,’ grinned Greg, easily. ‘I just need to know when you lose something so I can get some more for you.’ 

‘Okay,’ said John, hesitantly, still unsure of himself. Greg sighed, and flopped back onto the pillow. There was absolutely no chance of getting back to sleep, but he knew John still needed at least another half an hour. From the way the boy’s eyelids were drooping, he knew it too, even if he wouldn’t admit it. 

‘Come here,’ said Greg, beckoning to John to lay back down next to him. John collapsed back down on top of Greg, who let out an _oof_ as the not-inconsiderable weight of the smaller boy flopped onto his chest. 

John sighed, snuggling into Greg’s warmth. ‘What’s today?’ he mumbled. 

‘School, for you,’ replied Greg. 

‘And you?’ 

‘I have to go work the fields. The cows need to be milked and the sheep are almost ready to be sheared. The baker needs eggs so I’ll go deliver some, and maybe I’ll go trade some for some new socks. What colour would you like?’ 

‘Ooh!’ John shot upright. ‘New socks! And I get to pick the colour?’ 

‘Of course,’ replied Greg. He didn’t have the heart to tell the boy he had taken as his own that he probably wouldn’t be able to find any colour other than grey. ‘Unless you don’t lie down and at least _try_ to get a little more sleep.’ 

‘I’m not tired,’ replied John, petulantly, but lay down in the bed next to Greg anyway. ‘I don’t wanna sleep anymore.’ 

‘Too bad,’ replied Greg. ‘You have to sleep a little more. You have school today and you need to be awake and ready to learn.’ 

‘Okay,’ agreed John, easily. ‘But only if I can have red socks.’ 

‘Of course,’ said Greg, ‘Red socks it is. But you have to promise me that you will wear them to bed.’ Smiling, Greg leant down and grasped John’s tiny toes in his fingers. ‘They feel like bloody ice cubes!’ 

‘Hey!’ John groused, trying to tug his feet out of Greg’s grip. 

‘Nope,’ Greg smiled, gripping the toes and rubbing them in a brief effort to make them a little warmer. They truly did feel like ice-cubes. John yelped as Greg pinched his toes, teasingly, pushing small hands against the taller teen’s shoulders. 

‘Quit it, you bully!’ 

‘Oh, I’m a bully now, am I?’ 

‘Yes,’ John nodded, emphatically, ‘You are! I’m tryna’ sleep and you’re grabbing my toes like a meanie!’ 

‘So now you wanna sleep?’ 

‘Yeah, but some bully is trying to steal my toes!’ 

‘Why would I wanna steal your toes,’ Greg teased, ‘They’re too small to have any meat on them whatsoever. Just like the rest of you!’ 

Greg knew he shouldn’t, but leapt up and began to tickle John frantically, leaving the nine-year-old blond rolling around, giggling hysterically on top of their shared mattress, rucking the threadbare quilt they shared up around the boy like an odd nest. John’s squeals ring out in the morning air, filling the place with a sort of laughter that helps Greg remember why he does everything he does. 

It’s all for John, everything. It’s his job to keep this tiny boy safe from harm. 

John laughs, then reaches out with one hand to grasp onto any part of Greg he can manage. He only manages to grab Greg’s forearm, but clutches as if his life depends on it, giggling and squealing and just generally trying to escape from Greg’s clutches. 

Greg grins down at John, tickling all the more furiously. 

Behind them, the door squeaks open, and a puppy comes rolling in through the gap, barking like mad. The puppy is bright yellow in colour, gambolling and generally making a clumsy mess of himself. 

Distracted for just a moment, looking up to see the intruder, Greg pauses in his assault. It’s enough to let John wriggle free, and the young blond immediately slips off the bed, and makes for the door, pushing through with a mocking wave to his guardian. 

‘John!’ Greg yells after him, teasing, rolling off the bed and past the dog. The puppy bounds after him, following in the prematurely grey-haired teen’s wake, through the house. ‘Coming to get you, you horrible boy!’ 

The puppy barks like mad, rolling under the kitchen table. 

They live in a tiny part of District 10, not too far from the coast but far enough that the cool sea-breeze lost a lot of its refreshing qualities before it makes it way to whistle through the cracks in their small, clay house. Greg had built the entire place by hand, room by room. 

He was inordinately proud of the place, carefully carving out windows and doors, and fashioning them out of any sort of wood he could find. He’d even managed to find some glass for the windows, trading in some of the more valuable meats he had for the precious material. 

It had small living room, with a threadbare sofa he had worked for three weeks to earn, a kitchen table he had made himself, and a standard issue tele screen. There was only one bedroom, with a single, large bed that he had also made himself, and a mattress that he had begged off the butcher in town. It was nearly worn through, but it was enough to keep the chill out of their bones at night. 

He had hunted around for materials to make another bedroom for John when he had found the boy, but it had been too expensive. He simply couldn’t afford it. It didn’t seem to matter so much to the younger boy, and the first few weeks John didn’t even leave his sight anyway - Greg was too scared of the boy being taken from him. John didn’t complain, and came to Greg when he had nightmares anyway. 

John had lost his parents two years ago, when Greg had been sixteen. They had been killed by the Peacekeepers, after they had been far too foolhardy with their rebellious words. They had been even poorer than Greg, living in a hovel in town, and begging for scraps. When John had come to him, he had been as thin as a rake, malnourished, and tiny. 

Well, _tinier._

Greg had, instead, traded for some rope and fashioned a rope swing to hang from the tree outside their home. John took great delight in it, swinging for hours and hours. 

John’s muffled giggles echoed quietly from the living room, as Greg stalked through the kitchen, searching for the blond. 

‘Coming to get you, Johnny,’ called Greg, seeing the blond immediately, crouched behind the sofa. Behind him, Gladstone barked and leapt in front of Greg, bounding over to where John was. 

John frantically tried to wave the puppy away, but to no avail. Gladstone simply rolled into John, licking at the younger boy’s face until John was laughing loudly and frantically pushing at the dog. 

‘Found ya!’ Greg grinned, leaping on top of the dog and boy, and tickling John once more. 

John let out a yelp, and rolled over. ‘Okay, okay! I surrender! Greg please! Quit it, quit it!’ 

Greg laughed, but allowed John to wriggle free, getting to his feet and brushing himself off. ‘Alright, soldier, on your feet,’ he said, pulling John upright, and brushing off the boy’s shoulders. ‘Go get changed. I need some help grabbing those eggs, then you need to go to school. Did you do your homework last night?’ 

John rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Dad,’ he replied, mockingly, purposefully bumping into Greg before making his way back into the bedroom. 

Greg allowed him his privacy, instead stepping outside to pull his own clothes down from the clothesline outside their house. It was only a small thing, just a few old bits of wire strung along a rack. 

Stretching in the fresh air of the morning, Greg looked upwards, reaching his arms out to the sky, and yawned. It was clear, and sunny, a stretch of sunny days they’d been having recently. Their house was on top of a small hillock, and if Greg peered down, he could make out the smoke of the town, curling up in the morning air like ghosts. 

The fields that Greg groomed so meticulously were covered in early morning dewdrops, filling the air with their fresh scent. 

‘Greg!’ called John, from inside the house. ‘I’m done, you can change now.’ 

‘Great!’ replied Greg, gathering his clothes under one arm and heading back inside. He passed John in the living room, who had flopped down on the sofa and was looking at the tele screen. The only thing they had unlimited electricity for was this, everything else had to be paid for, and was only allowed during certain hours of the day. 

Electricity was so expensive - most of the time Greg just used candles. 

The morning newscast was just about to begin, and the grainy, grey humming filled the flat as John turned the volume up. Throwing his clothes on quickly in the bathroom, Greg headed back out into the kitchen, pulling out some bread and a little of the butter and ham to make a sandwich for John. 

That month’s tesserae was sitting in a barrel at the bottom of the pantry, and Greg added that to his list of chores to do - grind up and bake the grain into bread. He was lucky - he had only had to take out two tesserae last year, one for himself and one for John. He knew that there were kids like him out there who had to take out six, or even seven. 

Although, he didn’t have any idea what he was going to do next year - this was the last year he could be Reaped. Even when John turned twelve, he wasn’t going to ask John to take it out. He would protect John from the Games at any cost necessary. Even if it meant working himself to the bone to feed the both of them. 

‘John!’ Greg called, into the living room. ‘Breakfast!’ 

‘Coming!’ replied John, ambling into the kitchen and pushing himself up onto one of the uneven, slightly rickety seats. Gladstone followed after him, heading straight for the plate with the scraps of meat that Greg had rustled up for him; mostly offal of some sort or another. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers. 

Greg pushed the wooden plate towards the boy, brown bread placed on top and smeared over with a tiny scraping of strawberry jam, John’s favourite. 

John looked down at the bread, gaping, his eyes wide in wonder. ‘Jam?’ he asked. 

‘Yep,’ replied Greg, ‘Strawberry, too. I traded some beef yesterday at the market for it. You’d better eat it quick though, or else I will.’ 

John looked panicked at that, reaching out and grabbing the treat in his fingers and stuffing half of it in his mouth. The taste burst on the young boy’s tongue, and he groaned in satisfaction, a dash of jam smearing over his cheek. Greg grinned fondly, leaning over and wiping it off John’s cheek. 

Continuing to take small bites of the treat, John looked up at Greg, smiling around his mouthful. ‘Fanks, Greg,’ he mumbled. 

Greg just smiled, and leaned over to ruffle John’s hair, before plucking his threadbare canvas bag off the ground and shoving the sandwich inside, wrapped in a bit of paper. ‘Ham and butter,’ he told John, who nodded. 

Just as John finished his treat, a knock came on the door. John leapt up, grinning. ‘I’ll get it!’ 

‘Okay, soldier, go get it,’ Greg nodded, letting John leave the table, swing his bag onto his back and then make for the door like his bum was on fire. Greg quickly brushed crumbs off his hand, and swept scraps into the bin, before following John out to the door. 

Gladstone barked behind him, following Greg. 

‘Molly,’ Greg greeted, at the door, ‘How are you?’ 

‘Fine, thanks Greg,’ she replied, smiling down at John. The other teen was fourteen, and lived just a kilometre away, and went to the same school as John. She had agreed to take John to school with her when John first went to Greg. 

‘You need anything to eat this morning?’ Greg asked. Molly grinned up at him. 

‘Nope, I’m good, Mum finally managed to get our fire up and working so we all baked bread last night. Now we have heaps!’ 

‘That’s great, Molls,’ Greg replied. ‘If you need any meat, just let me know, I do have a bit of beef to spare.’ 

‘Thanks, Greg, but I reckon we’ll be fine. Save it for you and your little soldier here, he looks like he needs all the meat he can get. He still hasn’t got his growth spurt, has he?’ 

John, who had been silent up to this point, stamped a foot and pouted. ‘I’m not that short!’ 

‘Yes you are,’ replied Greg, ‘Squirt.’ 

‘Am not!’ John countered. 

‘Are too!’ 

‘Am not!’ 

‘Are too!’ 

‘Boys, boys,’ laughed Molly, ‘Stop! We’ve gotta go, John, or you’ll be late.’ 

‘Alright,’ grunted John, stepping on Greg’s toes for good measure. Greg yelped, good-naturedly, not wanting John to know that his attempted recompense hadn’t been felt. 

Greg knelt down, so he was at the same height as John, and ruffled the blonde’s hair. ‘You’ll be fine, soldier.’ 

‘I know,’ John huffed, ‘I’m not a baby.’ 

‘I know you’re not,’ replied Greg, before leaning forwards and pressing a kiss to the younger blonde’s cheek. John screeched in protest, leaping back away from Greg. 

‘Eww! Gross Greg,’ John yelped, running away, ‘Stop acting like a slobbery old grandpa!’ 

Greg just laughed, and decided not to mention to the young boy that he hadn’t even attempted to wipe the kiss away. Molly smiled at him, and then followed John off down the hill, waving goodbye. 

‘Have a good day!’ Greg called, before smiling fondly and turning back into the house, letting the door swing shut behind him. 

***

The sun had crept a little higher on the horizon when Greg pulled his work boots on, and grabbed his staff. 

His staff was a beautiful piece of wood, hand-carved for him by his father when he had turned ten, just a year before he had died. It had small etchings of swords on one side - carved crudely by his father in the image of something Greg had seen in his favourite book when he was young. 

The book had been something written by the Capitol, a sort of propaganda, Greg realised. It was ubiquitous around here, a children’s storybook about knights and dragons, castles and generals and great heroes. Of course, these heroes had always had Capitol names, meant to inspire children to worship the ‘heroes’ of the Capitol. 

Unfortunately, it had backfired spectacularly, the children not knowing how to read, and their parents reading the book to their children, and using different names. Names from the Districts. 

When the children were old enough to read, they changed the books themselves, crossing out the stupid, prissy Capitol names and replacing them with the names they had been told. 

‘Hey, Greg!’ Sally’s voice came from over the horizon, her bellow loud enough for him to hear. Sally lived on the next plot of land over, they often did their business together. 

‘Hey, Sal!’ replied Greg, raising a hand to wave to her. She was tending to her sheep, flocking about the paddock in which she had taken them that morning. She was guiding them all to stand in a huddled group, the shimmering razor shining on her belt. ‘You need help yet?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Sally, her voice booming up the hill. ‘I’ll call for you. You just take care of your cows.’ 

Greg didn’t reply, just saluting to her and heading around the side of the house down the hill. 

Vaulting over the rickety, wooden fences, he made for the barn. 

He had, cleverly, built the barn into a rocky side of the hill, where a gaping cave had stood empty. All he had to do was fashion a door out of some wooden planking, and attach it to the rock face with some metal pins, and it served well to keep the cattle locked in. 

Undoing the latch, he opened the door wide, allowing the cattle inside to wander out of their own free will. The fences would keep them in, giving the cattle around two hundred square metres in which to roam. There were only about thirty of them, their large, soft, brown eyes regarding him. 

The sounds of their moos filled the air, and chewing. 

Inside the barn, hay was strewn across the ground, pillowing the area. The old, tin water trough in the corner was half-empty, and poo littered the ground liberally. In a small alcove fenced off, tools were hanging up on the rack, pitchforks and the like. A bucket rested on the ground, and barrels lined the far wall. Most were full, but the Peacekeepers would be here to collect three out of the weekly four barrels tomorrow morning before the Reaping. 

Greg was immune to the smell, at this point, but it was still slightly overpowering in the morning, particularly if it hadn’t been cleaned out for a few days. Groaning, Greg added that to his mental list of things to do. 

It was beginning to become unpleasantly long. 

Greg grabbed a pitchfork and moved out of the barn, towards the hay bales on the far side of the field. Most of the cattle were grazing now, their large forms dotted here and there on the side of the hillock. 

The sun beat down on their spotted hides, and Greg took a moment to rest the pitchfork at his side, and turn his face to the sun, taking in as much of it as he could, before heading towards the bales. 

It was a simple task, grabbing and swirling the hay, then dumping a fresh layer over the barn floor. It was gruelling, though, leaving Greg with beads of sweat running down his nose and into his eyes. 

Every so often, a cow would stomp over the fresh hay, heading for a drink of water before meandering back out to munch on the grass. 

It was headed towards midday by the time Greg had finished, leaning with one hand on his hip on the pitchfork at his side, wiping the sweat off his forehead. The sun had warmed the entire place up, letting the smoke from the town dissipate. 

After a moment’s rest, Greg headed back towards the barn, chucking the pitchfork up against the alcove and instead grabbing the beaten tin bucket. The cattle had been trained from birth to come to him with a loud whistle, so Greg set out his small wooden stool, his bucket, and whistled for the nearest cow. 

At the sound of his piercing whistle, they all began to amble towards him. Greg slowly begins to works his way through the cows, milking each one for all he could before patting them on the behind and sending them on their way. They are used to the routine, barely fussing or changing their actions once he’s done. 

Greg hums quietly to himself as he goes, only realising later that it is the very tune he hummed to John last night after the younger boy’s nightmare. 

That reminds him - he needs to get the boy some socks. 

Soon, the tin bucket is full, and Greg grabs a glass bottle from his bag, dipping it in and filling it before capping it. He does the same for another bottle, tucking them both safely into his bag. One is for them, and the other, he thinks, he will try and trade for John’s socks. 

‘Oi Greg!’ 

Sally’s face appears next to him, her curls messily tied up into a pony and her dark eyes looking at him. She’s grinning at the start she gives him, but pats him on the back. 

He good-naturedly whacks her on the arm. ‘Quit it, Sal, unlike you, I have important things to do!’ 

‘Aww, don’t be like that Greggie,’ she mocks, ‘I need your help, anyway.’ 

‘Alright,’ replied Greg, getting to his feet and brushing the grass and dirt off his pants. He’s not entirely sure why he does it - habit at this point, he thinks. The pants are stained beyond repair anyway. ‘Shearing?’ 

‘Yeah,’ replies Sally, ‘Gotta get this wool off before the Reaping tomorrow. Bloody Peacekeepers comin’ for my house and home.’ 

‘C’mon Sal, it ain’t that bad.’ 

Sally scoffs, shrugging off his platitudes. ‘It _is_ that bad though, Greggie. You know it. They’ve been harsh recently. Just look at the Hoopers.’ 

‘I know,’ replied Greg, sighing. ‘But there isn’t anything we can do about it.’ 

Sally grits her teeth. ‘Just help me.’ 

‘Alright, alright,’ replied Greg. 

***

It’s hard, messy work, but easier with someone to talk to. Greg enjoys Sally’s company, and their banter, but sometimes she does get on his nerves. It’s all very well and good to say these things about the Capitol, their fancy overlords, but nothing has been done. Nothing will ever be done. 

‘It just makes me so angry, you know?’ said Sally, her teeth grinding and her razor strikes firm, strong and swift. ‘The Capitol, full of fucking prissies without a bit of common sense in their feather-covered heads.’ 

‘Sal, there ain’t nothing you can do about it. They’re always gonna be there, and we’re always gonna be here. It’s the little things in life that you gotta value.’ 

‘It’s just fucking stupid, is all. Here we are, working with our hands, when we both know none of this is gonna go to us, it’s all gonna go to the Capitol and District One and none of it is gonna come back to us.’ 

Her brows are low, her face stony and her expression rage filled. Her hands are gripping the razor so tight that her knuckles are white, and her swipes with the razor are swift and merciless. Greg’s almost afraid she’s about to gut the sheep, if he didn’t know her better. She cared for most of these since they were just lambs. 

It isn’t really that Greg disagrees with her. More that he doesn’t see the point in her rage. He’s always had to make do with what he’s had, starting from nothing. His father had left him nothing when he died, and everything Greg has he had to make for himself. So it seems so much better to be living out here with his cattle and his chickens, near Sally and Molly, and with John. He has a little boy he keeps safe, and a warm bed, and food on the table, some of it even tastes good. 

There’s not point screaming vitriol in the middle of a paddock at the Capitol, because it ain’t gonna do anything. It’ll only make Sally more frustrated. 

Greg is just thankful for what he has, particularly on mornings like this one, John snuggling into his side happily, John with strawberry jam on his cheeks, John grinning and laughing and playing with Gladstone, swinging on the rope every afternoon. Gazing down at his toes in mock sadness without his socks. 

‘How many’s Charlotte in for this year, anyway?’ asked Greg, trying to steer the conversation away from Sal’s commonly vitriolic speeches against the Capitol.

‘Twelve,’ replied Sally, shortly, her razor making a vicious cut through the thick curls of her fifth sheep. ‘But we need the tesserae.’ 

The eldest of three, Sally hadn’t been able to claim tesserae this year due to being too old. She had her nineteenth just a few weeks back. Everyone else had celebrated, but that night, Greg had found Sally crying behind the shed. When he asked her what was wrong, she had explained that now she had to ask her younger sister, Charlotte, to go in for tesserae just to feed them all. 

‘Are you sure, Sal?’ asked Greg, ‘I can request more, if you want. I don’t mind.’ 

‘We aren’t family,’ replied Sally, bitterly. ‘They’d never let us.’ 

‘Well, maybe we could pretend,’ grinned Greg, lightening the mood. ‘Or I could marry you.’ 

Sally threw back her head and laughed, nudging Greg mockingly. ‘I wouldn’t ask that of you,’ she replied. ‘I know you love cocks too much, and I hate them too much for that to ever work.’ 

Greg smiled. ‘How is Maya, anyway?’ 

For the first time, a genuine, besotted smile flittered across Sally’s face at the mention of the baker’s daughter. ‘She’s great. We’re great.’ 

Greg nudged her shoulder, before swiping once more with his razor. ‘I’m happy to hear that, Sal. Really happy. You deserve to be happy.’ 

Sally smiled, but there was sadness now around the corners of her mouth. ‘I want to believe that, Greggie, I really do. But I don’t know. I just don’t.’ 

‘I know it’s hard,’ Greg sighed, ‘but it’ll be alright.’ 

‘How can you know that?’ she asked, turning to him, desperation in her eyes. ‘How can you be so laid back all the time? How can you not be so afraid, all the time, for that little boy of yours, your son?’ 

‘John isn’t my son,’ Greg muttered. Sally shot him a foul look. 

‘Not my point, Greg,’ she said. ‘It’s so, so hard, every single damn day. I have to always look at little Lottie, and I know there’s twelve chances she’ll be Reaped this year, to go to those damn Games and be killed. Be murdered in cold blood from desperation by another Tribute. Just for a little meat, or bread, or even just some water.’ 

‘I know, Sal, I know.’ 

Greg stopped, placing his razor carefully in his lap. Sally did the same, but looked away from him, holding her arms against her chest. Raising a hand, resting it against Sally’s back, Greg sighed. ‘I know it’s hard. And you think I’m not scared for John, but I am. I don’t want him to go into that damn ball, I don’t want his name to ever be there. I want to protect him for the rest of my life, keep him locked safe in our home and never let him leave. I’m not looking forwards to next year, when I can’t get tesserae anymore. It’s gonna be a tight year, but I’m gonna make it work. And when John has to go in for Reaping, I’m gonna work even harder so that he doesn’t have to get tesserae. And it’s gonna hurt, but I don’t care, cause I’m gonna protect him.’ 

‘I wish I could do that,’ Sally said, bitterly, ‘but no matter how hard I work, it’s gonna be the same. They’re always gonna have to get tesserae, all because I grew up.’ 

‘It’s not your fault, Sal,’ said Greg, ‘But it is what it is. And you know you can always ask me for help. You can always ask me, and if I ever have anything to spare, I’ll give it to you. That pretty girlfriend of yours will help you, too, and next year, I reckon you’ll only have to ask Lottie to get three tesserae next year. Maybe even only two.’ 

‘You’d do that?’ asked Sally, almost disbelievingly. Greg grinned. 

‘Of course. People are always gonna help you, Sal, you just need to remember to ask.’ 

Sally smiled, bowing her head in thanks. Greg just ruffled her hair, then plucked his razor off his lap and set to work once more. 

‘C’mon Sal, gotta keep up with me,’ he teases her. She grunts, nudging him, but taking up her razor once more. 

***

Sally and Greg finish some time in the afternoon. The wool is piled up in neat stacks in her barn, a large, wooden affair built quite some time ago, before Sally came to acquire it. Sally only has to grab a few things, before she can follow Greg out to his own chicken-hutch. 

The chicken-hutch Greg had also built himself, with John’s help, just a year ago. The eggs it provides are valuable, and Greg can trade them for precious things like jam and greens and sometimes even proper sweet breads from the baker, special for John’s birthday. 

Made of wire and wood, and located under a lovely shaded tree and fenced off properly with barbed wire, the chickens inside are protected from the elements and from thieves and other animals like prairie dogs and wolves that prey on animals like that. Greg is, again, proud of it, even more so for the fact that John had helped him build it; picking out the wood and even helping hammer the planks into place. He had even built a ramp for the chickens, so they could go in and out as they pleased. 

‘C’mon, Greg,’ Sally called, as Greg gathered up a few more of the eggs to carefully place in his pack, in the special pocket padded with hay. Nestling the eggs in there, he shut his pack and headed down the hill with her. ‘Whaddyou need to get, anyway?’ 

‘Um, I need to get some veggies for dinner tonight, a bit more butter if I can, and the baker asked for some eggs, so I reckon I’ll be able to get a bit of money. I want to buy John some new socks, too, some red ones.’ 

Sally smiled. ‘You’re so dedicated to him.’ 

Greg laughed. ‘I’m not. I’m only doing what he asked me to, the annoying little bugger.’ 

‘But you love him.’ 

‘That I do,’ Greg grinned. ‘If the only thing I do in life is make sure that kid has a good future, then my life ain’t in vain.’ 

Sally grinned, nudging him on the shoulder. ‘And you reckon he ain’t your son.’ 

‘He had parents, Sal. I don’t want to take their memory away from him.’ 

‘You aren’t,’ Sally replied, ‘but you care for him like a father cares for a son. That’s what matters.’ 

‘I suppose,’ replied Greg. ‘But I do want him to remember his parents. They were brave.’ 

‘They stood up for what they believed in,’ Sally agreed, her expression darkening. ‘And they killed them for it. They left John Watson an orphan, all over a few remarks made in a slightly too-public space.’ 

‘They were brave, Sal. They were. They were also a little foolish, but everyone makes mistakes.’ 

‘Yeah,’ replied Sally, ‘Everyone makes fucking mistakes. Don’t mean they should have had to pay for them with their lives.’ 

‘It’s fucking wrong, Sal, I know,’ replied Greg, ‘But getting angry ‘bout it isn’t gonna change what really happened. All I can ever do is tell John that his parents were brave, that I love him now, and that he’s gonna have a great future. He’s gonna know right from wrong, but he ain’t gonna be stupid about it.’ 

‘That’s a good way to think about it, Greggie,’ Sally said, ‘but it does sound like a damn coward to me.’ 

‘Sal, y’have to understand. I was born with nothing, not like you. Your dad was mayor before he was killed. When you come from the bottom, you figure that you just have to keep your head down, and protect those you love. You are just one person, and there’s no point raging against a system that is gonna fucking beat you down every turn you get. Sometimes it’s cowardly, yeah, but I do stand up for what I believe in when I reckon it’s necessary. It’s why I took John in in the first place.’ 

‘I suppose,’ sighed Sally. ‘C’mon.’ 

She nudged them towards the bakery. 

The bakery was a small place, but it smelt like literal heaven. Greg loved walking through the doors, breathing in the scent of freshly baked bread. It was like nothing else on earth. 

‘Afternoon, Greg,’ said the baker, warmly. ‘Have you got those eggs for me?’ 

‘Yeah, I do,’ Greg replied, pulling them gently from his bag. 

‘Oh, thanks,’ the baker grinned, taking them from him gently. ‘It’s my anniversary in two days, I wanted to make a cake.’ 

‘That sounds lovely, mate, happy anniversary,’ Greg smiled, easily. 

‘Oh, and here.’ The baker pulled a few gold coins out of his apron, wiping his hands on the fabric before handing them over. Greg gaped. 

‘That’s far too much, I can’t possibly accept.’ 

‘Yes, you can and you will,’ the baker said, sternly. ‘I know you’ve got that boy of yours to take care of, and I know you need it.’ 

Greg didn’t want to admit it, but he knew that the baker was right. 

With a little hesitation, he took the coins gently from the baker’s hand, almost reverently. Sally was looking over her shoulder at them, her eyes wide at the sight of so much gold. Greg smiled, ruefully. 

‘Thank you, so much,’ Greg thanked the man, profusely. Inside, he was skipping with glee. This meant he could definitely get those socks for John. They might even be red, like John had asked. 

‘That was nice of him,’ Sally commented. Greg smiled. 

‘It was.’ 

Suddenly, he had a thought. The coins he had, clutched in his hands. There were three of them. 

Quickly, he opened his hand and transferred one into her pocket, knowing she wouldn’t notice until they were home. 

Two was enough for now. He didn’t really need the third, the way that Sal did. She would be able to get some of the nicer flour, now, and a bit of wax for some candles. 

‘Do you need to do something?’ asked Greg. Sally sighed, but nodded.

‘Yeah, I gotta go over to the market, see if I can’t find something for Alex. He’s got a bit of a cough.’ 

‘Does he?’ asked Greg, sharply. A cough could mean death ‘round here. 

‘Yeah. It ain’t too bad, but it also ain’t a good sign. He’s on the mend, we reckon, but I still wanna get some cream for his chest.’ 

‘You go do that, yeah?’ And quickly, Greg pressed another of the coins into her pocket. ‘I have to go to get John from school, then I gotta pop by the market to trade for some veggies.’ 

‘Alright. See you later, Greg.’ 

Greg smiled, then took the turn off for the school, down a small alley. 

Just before he was out of hearing range of her, he turned back, and called out. ‘Sal, look in your pocket!’ 

He then turned, and ran away, laughing, so she couldn’t catch up. He only just heard the gasp when she found the coins in her pocket. ‘GREGORY LESTRADE!!’


	2. Reaping

John skipped along next to him, in his happy-go-lucky way, gripping Greg’s hand as they made their way through towards the market. Greg had brought with him a small bit of bread for the ever-ravenous nine-year-old to munch on, and that was what his other hand was occupied with. 

The market is a run-down little spot near the centre of town. Everything here is a little worn-out, but the market looks especially worn-down, in an effort to avoid the eyes of the Capitol. Technically, they aren’t supposed to trade with one another, they’re only supposed to rely on what the Capitol gives them and what they can grow themselves. But it is never enough. Just another way to try and control them. 

John loves the market. He adores it, really. There are other children there, smaller children who run around laughing and giggling. There’s also always a few strange shops, places with bits of odd meat from unrecognisable sources, weird little baubles, and tiny trinkets from District One that John fawns over. 

On his first birthday with Greg, Greg had bought him one of these, a little tin soldier that had cost him almost half a barrel of milk. 

But it had been worth it, just seeing the way that John’s navy-blue eyes had lit up, and how he had clutched the tiny soldier to his chest. 

‘Are we going to the market?’ asked John, looking up at Greg. 

‘Yeah,’ replied Greg, ‘We gotta get some veggies, so you let me know when you see some you reckon you’ll eat.’ 

John frowned, and poked out his tongue in disgust. ‘Gross.’ 

‘Too bad,’ said Greg, ‘You aren’t three, and you are going to eat your veggies, unless you want to be three feet tall your entire life.’ 

‘I’m not three feet tall!’ insisted John, his cheeks puffing out in fury. ‘I’m not.’ 

‘Sure, pipsqueak,’ Greg replied, lifting another hand to ruffle the blond locks feathered over John’s scalp. 

John stomped on Greg’s foot. 

The market was filled with funny smells near constantly, hawkers there shouting their wares, and what they want to trade for. 

Greg made a beeline for the far side, where he knew all the fresh veggies would be. On his way, he spotted Sally. 

He saluted her, tugging John along in his wake. She just frowned, and raised a finger, wagging it at him mockingly. Greg grinned, and tugged John away. 

John himself was still happily licking crumbs from the bread from his fingers, letting Greg tug him through the late-afternoon crowds. Veggies were piled up on small, heaving tables, in front of which stood young men and women. 

‘What about broccoli?’ asked Greg. John frowned, but nodded. 

‘And lettuce,’ he said, ‘I liked when you got that.’ 

‘Alright,’ said Greg. ‘But you have to have some beans, too.’ 

John groaned, but nodded. ‘Alright Greg.’ 

Greg traded the milk off for the veggies, pouring a little into each seller’s tin jug. It was just enough for three days, he thought, and by then he’d have enough to afford a little more. 

As they were turning to leave, a voice called out to him. ‘Hey, Greg!’ 

Greg turned to see the slightly corpulent form of Henry Knight, the son of the other cattle farmer a few plots over. Greg plastered an easy smile on his face, pulling John close to him to keep out the way of the flow of traffic. Henry’s father, Angus Knight, also kept a few chickens and had helped him first start up his own hutch. 

‘Oi Henry,’ he replied, ‘What can I do for you?’ 

Henry scratched the back of his head a little sheepishly. ‘We’ve been having some trouble with wild dogs,’ said the darker-haired man, two-day stubble on his wobbling chin. ‘My dad can’t get them to stay away from the hutch, he’s tried just about everything. He wanted me to ask you to help.’ 

‘Course,’ replied Greg, ‘I’d be happy to help. You want me to come by this evening?’

‘Yeah, that’d be much appreciated,’ replied Henry. ‘He really wants to get this one sorted.’ 

‘Well, I’ll get this one fed and in bed, then I’ll come by with my things and see what can be done.’ 

‘Thanks so much, Greg,’ said Henry, gushing, ‘My dad’s gonna be happy.’ 

‘Least I can do,’ Greg nodded. ‘I’ll head off and see if I can get some food into him quick as I can then swing by.’ 

‘Look, I know it’s a bit of an ask,’ said Henry, ‘What with Reaping tomorrow and stuff.’ 

‘No worries, no worries,’ laughed Greg. Henry got quite nervous, shaking and shuffling his feet awkwardly. ‘See you tonight.’ 

***

Greg was quick to put John to bed that night, fed with a bit of meat roasted over the fire, some bread and a little of the broccoli. It wasn’t much, but it meant that the young blond wouldn’t go hungry. John had done his homework, and was now yawning next to Greg on the bed, leaning against the older boy. 

Greg had pulled out the old story book, and was now reading softly to John. The younger blond would never admit it, but he loved the old book, especially on nights like this. Greg was loathe to go out tonight, he didn’t want to leave John, but he knew that he owed Henry’s father. 

On Reaping nights, John had always gotten such horrible nightmares, screaming ones where he would wake up and clutch to Greg like his life depended on it. Greg couldn’t really blame him. He himself had enough trouble sleeping. 

This year he would be entering the Reaping twenty-one times. His name could very well be drawn, and the only assurance he had that he wouldn’t be taken was that there were thousands of entries. Thousands of children's names in that glass fishbowl. 

He wasn’t nervous. He told himself that. He wasn’t nervous. 

Everything would be alright, and that night he would come back here with John, and they would crawl into bed, and he would hold John tight and promise that everything was going to be fine for another year. They wouldn’t watch the Games. Greg never let John watch the Games. It was brutal, and harsh, and the District Ten Tributes were always killed in the first three days. No one should have to watch that. 

‘… and the Silver Knight reared up on his horse, and drove his sword straight into the heart of the great dragon. The great, red dragon roared its last, falling down under the steel of the Silver Knight’s sword.’ 

The book was open, on a page depicting a beautiful knight in shining armour driving a long, silver sword straight into the heart of the great dragon. The dragon was a monstrous thing, with long claws and gnashing teeth. Despite that, this was Greg’s favourite image in the whole book. It was beautiful, the Knight rendered in startling silvers that almost, if you looked at it from the right angle, actually reflected the light. 

This was the only thing his father had left for him, and he held it tight. It was one of his most valuable possessions. 

Here, right now, in their warm little home, with John snuggled up and snoozing under the covers next to him, clutching his tiny tin soldier, sleepily listening to Greg. This was perfect. This was his little corner of happiness, his reminder of what it was he had to keep fighting for. 

‘You remind me of the Silver Knight,’ said John, his voice hazy with sleep. Greg tensed. 

‘What makes you say that, my little soldier?’ he asked. 

‘Your hair,’ replied John. ‘It’s silver, just like the Knight’s armour. And you’re brave like him, too. You keep me safe, I know you do.’ 

‘Of course I keep you safe,’ said Greg, clutching John a little tighter to himself. ‘I will always keep you safe, little soldier. No matter what.’ 

‘I know,’ John said, easily, ‘You always have and you always will.’ 

Greg smiled. 

John slowly slipped down into sleep, clutched against Greg’s side like a most precious jewel. Tucked under the covers, warm and safe. 

As soon as Greg was certain the younger boy was completely asleep, he pushed himself to his feet. Standing by the side of the bed, he tugged his boots back on, then leant over John. Tucking the quilt around John quietly, he covered the boy up, until just his mop of feathered blond hair was left. 

A brief kiss pressed to those locks, which John hummed and snuffled after, then Greg left the bedroom and headed for the door, swinging his pack onto his back. Sneaking around the house, closing the front door behind him, and heading for the back of the house. Behind the house was a small lean-to, with a shower stall for the rare wash and a toilet. Inside the shower, a small tin sheet covered one wall. 

Greg lifted the tin sheet out of the way, revealing a nook behind it. It was a small, narrow thing, just enough for Greg to store his weapons. He was the only one he knew of who could actually use a weapon, he had a small stash of a few knives, a staff that he had used twine to fasten a spearhead to, and a sword. 

The sword was his pride and joy, a piece of worked steel with a wooden handle and carved pommel. The cross-guard wasn’t large, but it did the job, and was nicked with a few blade marks; battle scars acquired over the years. 

His father had taught him how to use the piece, and the knives, and the spear. Originally, Greg’s father had been a soldier, before he’d run away to be with his mother in the Districts. It had all been very romantic, as a story, but the harsh reality was that he just wasn’t ready to live in the Districts. After Greg’s mother had passed away giving birth to him, they had struggled. 

Greg had grown up on the streets in the main town of District Ten, quite a way north from where they were. No-one took kindly to a soldier, or a Peacekeeper. It had made him hardy, strong. Strong enough to fight off a couple of wild dogs. 

Quietly, Greg slipped the sword out, and tucked it into his pack so just the handle was poking out. He also took two of the knives, grasping them and placing one in each of his boots. 

Content with what he had, he shoved the tin sheet back over his small stash, and then quietly slunk off into the night. 

***

He arrived at the Knights’ place with a bit of time to spare, the sun having just set over the horizon. Knocking on the door, he was promptly ushered into their home. 

The Knights were by far more affluent than him, their home being made of bricks instead of simple clay, and a fire crackling in an iron grate. They even had a lovely carpet, sitting out on the floor and barely dirty. 

‘Hello, Greg,’ said Henry’s mother, from where she was sat knitting on a nearby lounge chair. ‘How are you?’ 

‘On balance I’ve had better days,’ replied Greg, jokingly. Mrs Knight let out a peal of almost girlish laughter. Greg grinned. 

‘Ah, Greg,’ greeted Henry’s father. ‘Always a pleasure.’ 

‘You too, Mr Knight,’ Greg replied. 

‘How are your chickens?’ asked the older farmer. 

‘Yeah, alright,’ replied Greg, ‘I’ve been getting regular eggs from them, but we had a bit of a scare last month when one dropped dead for no reason.’ 

‘Oh?’ asked Henry’s father, raising an eyebrow. 

‘Yeah, but turns out it was just the old one, bit tired and getting on in years, I reckon. Nothing viral, nothing bacterial. Nothing really to worry about.’ 

‘That’s good.’ 

‘John was upset though. He’d named that one Ethel, loved her to bits I reckon.’ Henry’s father smiled wryly. 

‘Ah, well, I’m sure your boy recovered.’ 

‘He did indeed,’ replied Greg, grinning, ‘Particularly over the roast chicken dinner that night.’ 

Mr Knight grinned, the smile cracking his face and making him look ten years younger. Mrs Knight let out another girlish giggle. Greg chuckled, and nodded. 

‘So, these dogs?’ Greg prompted, not wanting to seem too eager, but at the same time looking forward to getting home and hoping that John hadn’t woken up from a nightmare to find him gone. 

‘Right,’ Mr Knight nodded, ‘Follow me.’ 

‘I reckon I’ll just stake it out, then see if I can’t catch him.’ 

‘I have full faith you will,’ said the older farmer. ‘I heard you caught that fox that had been plaguing Miss Donovan’s place.’

‘Yeah, I did. Bit of a vicious bugger, but it only took me a few hours.’ 

‘How did you do it?’ the man asked. 

‘Pretty easy, actually,’ replied Greg, shrugging. ‘Just hid behind some bushes, then when it poked its head out I just chucked a knife at it. Got it right through the eye, too, some nice meat for Sal to trade. Old Al down at the market likes fox meat. I reckon the old man’ll take some dog meat as well.’ 

‘You don’t want it?’ 

‘Nah, I’ve got the meat I need.’ 

By this point they’d reached the back door, and Mr Knight pointed off to the west, where Greg remembered his chicken hutch being. Greg peered through the darkness, spotting where the dark shape of the hutch was. Right next to it, just a few metres from the entrance to the hutch was a small group of bushes. Greg knew that they were the perfect spot to hide. 

‘I reckon I’ll have them in a few hours,’ said Greg, nodding. 

‘Thanks,’ said Mr Knight, ‘I really appreciate it.’ 

‘No worries, mate,’ he replied. 

***

A few hours spent crouching in the dirt had Greg rethinking that. It was bloody cold, his breath misting in the air, and a little wet. His mind had drifted over the last few hours, particularly when the lights from the Knights’ place had gone out for the evening. 

The knives were a cold weight in his hand, his thoughts heavy on his heart. 

It was never an easy thing to watch the Games, really. Greg had never allowed it to rule his life, though. He had always let it be, as one of those things that he just couldn’t change and wasn’t going to try to. He was thankful to be far enough away from easy access by civilisation that the Peacekeepers never really checked he was watching the Games. It was a sick thing, a horrible event at which all but one out of twenty-four young, beautiful lives were snuffed out for good. 

But what was the point in fighting a system he couldn’t change?

Suddenly, there was a rustle in the darkness. 

Greg’s senses immediately snap into focus, everything that his father taught him coming to the forefront of his mind. It’s easy, it always has been easy, to slip into that mindset. That single-mindedness that his father had drilled into him before he passed, the single-mindedness of a warrior.

His breath ghosted on the air, forming into a gentle cloud then dissipating. 

He peered through the leaves. 

The dog was there, just a formless shape in the darkness. Greg could hear it, though, panting, quiet breaths. The chicken hutch, where it had been a little bevy of noise, the nighttime snuffles of the chickens, was now completely silent. 

It approached the hutch, padding across the ground towards the wire cage. It was obvious that it had been at the cage before, digging its claws in and trying to work its way inside. The knife was flicked into his hand; hilt first, the sword in his other. Quietly, Greg drew back his arm, into the position he’d been taught. 

Then, he threw. 

He put all his strength behind the throw, sending the knife whizzing through the air, cutting through the icy cold like butter. The dog didn’t know what hit it, just looking up as the knife whistled. 

There was a soft thump as the knife hit its target, The dog let out a feeble whine, falling to the ground with all the grace of a dead body. 

Greg got to his feet, brushing the leaves off his shoulders, and pushed his way out of the brambles. It was an easy matter to switch his sword over to his other hand, and then, with a single swing, he ended the thing’s life. 

The lights in the house flicked back on, and Mr Knight opened the door. ‘You got him?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg called back, grabbing the dog and dragging it behind him. ‘I’ve got him.’ 

Up at the house, Mr Knight nodded, waiting for Greg to lug the deadweight back up the hill. 

As soon as he made it up there, Mr Knight peered over his shoulder at the shape of the dog. ‘Gotta leave it up to bleed out then I can gut it, yeah?’ 

‘Yep,’ replied Greg, ‘If you want I could take it to market in a few days’ and see what I can get for it.’ 

‘I might just take you up on that,’ sighed the older man. ‘I’m getting too old for this.’ 

‘Speak for yourself, mate,’ Greg ribbed, good-naturedly. 

The older man just grunted, beckoning him inside. Greg left the dog on the hook right by the back door, and followed him into the house. His wife was still up, sitting on the lounge, knitting. 

‘Thanks, Greg,’ said the other farmer, ‘And you know, if there’s anything I can do for you, just ask.’ 

‘Of course,’ Greg smiled, honestly. 

Mrs Knight looked up from her knitting, and smiled. ‘You be off now, dearie, and don’t forget if you need something, just let us know.’ 

Greg’s eyes focused on the red wool by Mrs Knight’s side. 

‘Actually…’ 

***

John’s scream rouses Greg from his sleep, what feels like just a few minutes after he collapsed next to the tiny blond in the bed. Immediately, Greg leant over and plucked the flint and steel from the bedside table and lit the candle that was sitting there in a spark of flame. Sitting upright, he tugged John, who was sobbing silently, against his chest, and began to rock the nine-year-old. 

Mature for his age, John was quite often serious, and saw the world with a critical eye, but it was times like this when Greg remembered he was a nine year old who, two years ago, had seen his parents brutally executed in front of him, and was, in many ways, just a child. John was a child, and he needed Greg to be there to comfort him. To hold him tight against a tall, warm body, and rock him gently. 

‘Hey,’ Greg whispered, against John’s feather-soft hair. ‘It’s alright, kid. My little soldier.’ 

John just cried. 

Greg rocked him back and forth, in his arms. ‘It’s gonna be alright, I promise, Johnny. Everything is gonna be fine.’ 

‘You… you don’t know that…’ John hiccupped. ‘You can’t know that.’ 

‘I do know that,’ replied Greg. ‘I know that whatever happens, you’ll be fine. Our home has enough food for you, and enough water to drink. You have Sally next door, Molly up the road, and even the Knights across the way. You just need to remember that, little soldier.’ 

Greg leaned over, plucking the tin soldier from the side of the bed, and pressing it into John’s hands. 

‘I told you once, when I first got this for you, that your parents were very brave. They were very brave, and stood up for what they believed in. And they did everything they could to protect you, even to their last.’ 

‘I know,’ sniffled John, clutching the tiny soldier tightly. 

‘And you are just as brave as they are. You are just as strong, you are every bit my little soldier. Everything will be alright.

‘I know sometimes it’s hard. I bloody know, Johnny. I know sometimes you miss them so much, but you only ever need to open your eyes and remember that you have me. And you’re always gonna have me, Johnny, I promise. Even when I can’t be with you really, I’m always gonna be here.’ 

Greg tapped the side of John’s temples. 

‘And you know something else, little soldier?’ 

‘What?’ asked John, looking up at Greg with fear around the corners of his wide, navy-blue eyes. 

‘There’s always gonna be people looking out for you. There’s always gonna be people who love you. Everyone you meet, loves you so very much. You know that?’ 

‘Okay,’ replied John. 

‘You know why?’ asked Greg. John shook his head. ‘Because you are smart, and brave, and clever, and funny. You have so much energy, and you are so much fun to be around. And I love you too, you know that?’ 

John’s eyes were welling up even more, now. 

‘I love you so very much. You mean the world to me. And I don’t want to ever let you down.’ 

‘Love… love you too…’ John whispers, against Greg’s chest. 

There’s something expanding in the eighteen-year-old’s heart. Something heavy that chokes him up, and forces him to grip John against his chest as tight as he possibly can. 

They stay like that, for a while, rocking back and forth in the bed, in the flickering candle-light. 

After a moment, Greg rubs John’s back, then smiles. ‘I got the dog, you know. The one that’s been getting at Henry’s chickens?’ 

‘Yeah?’ asked John, his eyes gleaming with interest. ‘You did?’ 

‘Yep. It was a big one, too. About the size of you, your highness.’ 

John let out a giggle. ‘I’m not as small as a wild dog!’ 

‘But it was a big one,’ said Greg. ‘A huge one. I reckon Mr Knight’s gonna ask me to take it to market, and you can see for yourself. I even had to use the sword.’ 

‘Cool!’ squealed John, ‘Like the Knight!’ 

‘Yes,’ laughed Greg, ‘Just like that. The Knight slaying the big, furry dragon.’ 

‘And saving the poor damsels in distress! The chickens!’ 

Greg grinned. ‘Definitely.’ 

Under the covers, John’s toes were wriggling, which reminded Greg of something else. Pinching John’s toes over the quilt, he leant over to the side of the bed where he had left his pack, and plucked out the socks he had carefully balled up there. 

They were truly lovely things, deep red in colour and thick. Mrs Knight had been sure to make them warm and soft for John’s toes, and she had delivered. 

John gasped in delight when he caught sight of the socks, immediately rolling off Greg’s lap to pull them onto his feet. Leaning back in the bed, he looked at them, contentedly, wriggling his toes. 

‘They’re lovely, Greg, thanks!’ he exclaimed, ‘I love them.’ 

‘I’m glad you like them, kid,’ replied Greg, grabbing one of John’s toes and pinching it mischievously. ‘They are nice, aren’t they?’ 

‘Yep!’ 

‘If you’re not careful, I’m gonna take ‘em for myself!’ With that, Greg leapt on top of John’s feet, and John squawked in outrage, tugging his feet out of Greg’s grip. From there it was all-out warfare; Greg leaping for John’s toes and John scrambling over the bed to get away. 

It ended with Greg grasping John by the leg, and tugging him up so he could stroke the lovely knit socks. John was left giggling and gasping for laughter, and feebly punching at Greg’s stomach in an effort to intimidate the older teen. 

‘Feeling better?’ asked Greg. 

John didn’t say anything, just crawled up to nuzzle into Greg’s arm with a sigh. Greg smiled, leaning over to blow out the candle. 

In the darkness, John pressed his now sock-clad toes against Greg’s shins, and snuggle up against his guardian in the night. 

***

Greg woke early, at the crack of dawn, and immediately nudged John awake. He was reluctant to do so, but he knew that he had no choice. 

‘C’mon, little soldier, up you get,’ he muttered. John frowned, batting at Greg’s nose. 

‘No…’ John grunted. ‘Don’t wanna…’ 

‘Too bad, kid, come on.’ Greg lifted John upright, letting the tiny boy rub at his eyes before blinking blearily awake. 

‘Wha…’ 

‘Come on. Kid, I know you don’t wanna do this. I don’t wanna do this, but if we’re gonna make it in time we gotta be in town by nine. We have a long journey to get to the big town.’ 

Greg had only taken John to the big town twice, to get him registered as Greg’s adopted son, and for the last Reaping. 

‘You know that the only reason you can get out of this is if you are on your deathbed. And they check, you know that.’ 

John didn’t reply. He had clearly woken up enough to know what day it was, and wasn’t happy about it. 

They went about their routine silently, today. John fished his best clothes out of their tiny clothes’ chest; a small wooden affair with a large, tin latch. It was a small, button-up shirt, and a pair of slightly tatty, but stitched shorts. His school shoes were waiting by the door. 

Greg followed suit, pulling his own button-up out of the chest and throwing it on over his vest. He pulled on his long pants, and his socks. 

John kept his red socks on. 

They made their way to the door, and Greg pulled on his boots just by the door. 

‘Wait!’ said John, stopping suddenly just after Greg had opened the door to leave. ‘I wanna get something.’ 

‘Alright, but quick sticks.’ That brought a smile to the blond’s face, but it was gone in an instant. John went off quickly, and came back tucking something small, and wooden into his pocket. He pulled his own school shoes onto his feet, tucking and rolling his large, knit socks down. Greg grinned down at him. ‘What did you need?’ 

‘Nothing,’ replied John, evasively. ‘I just wanted something to eat.’ 

‘Sure…’ said Greg, dubiously, but shrugged it off. He had taken a few coppers with him so they could get something to eat in town, a little treat for John for having to go through this. 

The morning was bright, and cool, and Greg was quick to vault the fence and throw open the barn door. Over by the chicken hutch, John peered inside as the chickens began to cluck and shuffle out into their little yard. 

Cattle lowed through the morning air, and the quiet squelch of poo under hoof reminded Greg of what he needed to do tomorrow. 

John was waiting on the other side of the fence for him to be done, and Greg smiled at the boy as he vaulted back over the fence. He held out his hand for the smaller boy to take, which John didn’t hesitate to do, and led him down the hillock, towards where the town was nestled like a clutch of diamonds. 

‘Greg!’ Sally’s familiar voice sounded from behind them, and both Greg and John turned to see her, Molly, Maya and the various members of their clans heading down towards them. 

‘Heya Molls, hey Sal!’ he waved, and John let go of his hand long enough to do the same, and to give Molly a hug when she had caught up. 

Alex, Charlotte and Maya were all gathered around Sally, and Molly clutched Sam against her as they approached. Maya was holding Sally’s hand.

‘Hey John,’ waved Alex, his throat sounding terrible - wheezy and croaky. 

‘Sal,’ said Greg, ‘Didn’t you get that cough medicine?’ 

‘I did,’ replied Sal, fixing him with a glare that had no real heat. ‘But these things don’t go away in a night.’ 

‘I know,’ replied Greg, ‘I just thought it might be a little better.’ 

Sally sighed. ‘We’ll get there. I’m sure he just needs a few doses. Come on, we gotta get down there before they leave.’ 

‘Right on,’ replied Molly, leading the troupe down the hillock. Greg felt John’s small, warm hand slide back into his, and squeeze tight. 

‘Molly,’ Greg said, ‘Where’s your Mum?’ 

‘She’s not coming this year,’ replied Molly. 

‘Why not?’ asked Greg. 

‘She didn’t want to. Said she couldn’t watch another two poor kids go off to those horrible Games.’ 

‘Don’t we all,’ grumbled Sally. 

‘And Sam?’ 

‘He wanted to come with me,’ replied Molly. 

‘Yeah,’ said Sam, quietly, from where he was pressed against Molly’s shoulder. 

The town was bustling with life when they reached it, even more so than usual. It was flittering with people, most headed towards the north side of the town where the coaches would be heading off. 

‘Wait a moment,’ said Greg, holding up a hand, before ducking into the bakery. The baker already had a bag out for him, and he smiled when Greg ducked in, gesturing to the bag and letting Greg put down his silvers in its place. 

‘See you this evening, Greg,’ said the baker. Greg nodded his thanks, and ducked out again, heading towards where the others were waiting, to the side of the stream of people headed towards the coaches.

Long, sleek things, they were made by the Capitol and brought here for the purpose of ferrying kids to the Reaping. There were parents waiting by the side, watching their children go and sniffling silently. Many were crossing their fingers and hoping that it wasn’t their child who didn’t come back. 

Only a few were allowed on. 

The nearest coach had a familiar face standing out the front of it. 

‘Carter!’ waved Greg. The Peacekeeper returned the gestured, smiling from behind his white mask. 

‘Hey mate, long time no see,’ he replied. 

‘Yeah. How’s the wife?’ 

‘Alright,’ replied Carter. ‘We’re thinking ‘bout starting a family.’ 

‘I don’t recommend it,’ said Greg, teasingly. ‘I have to go through enough with this one,’ he nudged John. 

John huffed, indignantly. ‘Hey!’ 

Greg just smiled down at the smaller blond, and placed a hand around his shoulders tightly, before ushering Molly, Sam, Sally, Alex, Maya and Charlotte onto the coach in front of him. 

‘See you ‘round mate, ey?’ 

‘Course, you blighter,’ replied Carter, good-naturedly, before ushering him and John onto the coach. 

The coach was cool on the inside, sleek and modern. A faint whirring could be heard around them, the seats and floor buzzing beneath them. John looked around in awe, and at the people settling into their seats. 

Down a ways, Molly and Sally were waving to him, and Greg strode down, tugging John alongside him. Just in front of Sally were two empty seats, and Greg helped John up into the window seat, before flopping down himself. 

These seats were comfier than anything he had ever been in before. They were certainly more comfy than the sofa at home, even probably the bed. But despite that, Greg couldn’t help but wish that he were anywhere but here. 

***

The trip passed in a blur of mumbled voices, John complaining he was bored, John complaining he was hungry and John complaining he was tired. Eventually, they had travelled far enough north that they were nearing the central township of District Ten. 

Even from this distance, Greg could see the excitement and busy-ness that surrounded the larger town. John was snoozing on Greg’s lap, crumbs from the bun the baker had given him that morning still smeared across his face. As the coach rolled to a stop, Greg realised he didn’t really have the heart to wake John, and instead just hoisted the young boy into his arms, slinging the nine-year-old’s legs around his waist, and resting him on his hip. 

Molly was in much the same boat, Sam having gone to sleep and quietly snoozing on her shoulder. Alex and a bleary Lottie had to be shoved off the coach by a quiet Maya and irritated Sally. 

John was still drooling into Greg’s shoulder as they strode towards the centre of town, all of them dragging their heels. 

Everyone was silent. Even the sense of busy-ness that filled the town was silent. Just a march of deadened children heading towards the Justice Building, and the Square, in the middle of town. 

The Square was nowhere near big enough to host all the people of District Ten, but then, it didn’t need to. It was just large enough to hold those eligible for Reaping, youngest at the back, oldest at the front. 

Of course, they stopped about five hundred metres from the gate, where Peacekeepers were waiting for them. Greg set John down on the ground, the blond having blinked blearily awake some time ago. 

‘Hey, look at me,’ Greg murmured, quiet enough so the others couldn’t hear. ‘You remember what I said about being brave last night?’ 

John nodded. 

‘Well right now, you have to be brave. You have to be brave and stand with Sally and Sam. I’m just going to be right there,’ Greg pointed to where the eighteen-year-olds had already begun to crowd in together, ‘and I’ll wave to you. And Sally will hold your hand if you like. But it’s just gonna be like last year.’ 

‘Greg,’ asked John, uncertainly, ‘You’ll be alright?’ 

‘Course,’ replied Greg, easily. ‘I’ll be fine. You’ll see. At four o’clock - see that big tower there?’ he pointed at the clock on the tower of the Justice Building, ‘When it goes to four, I’ll be standing next to you and we’re gonna hop on the coach and head back to the farm and then you have to help me clean out the barn. ‘Cause Bessie pooped all over it.’ 

‘Ugh,’ groaned John, rolling his eyes. Greg grinned. 

‘Now come on,’ Greg stood, and took John’s hand, walking him over to where Sally was waiting with Sam in her arms. ‘You’re gonna be fine.’ 

‘I know,’ replied John, ‘I’m brave, like my Mum and Dad. Like a soldier.’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Greg, ruffling John’s hair affectionately. 

***

The Reaping proceeded as normal. The Mayor stood, and introduced the escort, Calypso Singlebrook. Her hair was, as ever, coiffed around her head in beautiful, crazy curls of blue. Her make-up was horrifyingly pale, aside from her lips and her eyeshadow, which seemed to be the most effervescent of colours in an effort to make up for the disappointing pale of her skin. 

Greg didn’t really care. All he cared about was turning, and catching sight of John whenever he could. John was watching him intently, up on his toes from where he was standing behind the barricade, next to Sally and Sam. 

Then, the Mayor read off the list of Victors from their District. The list was tiny, and only one survived. 

Dimmock, or Dimmock the Drunk as he was known, stumbled onto stage at the call of his name, giving Calypso a huge smack on the cheek, and then collapsing into a chair next to her. The Mayor frowned, but continued down his page like the rehearsed lines they were. 

He spoke of the Dark Days. The Rebellion. 

The fall of Thirteen. 

The Hunger Games, as punishment for what the Districts had done. 

‘… and may the odds be ever in your favour,’ he droned, to finish. ‘Now, please, Calypso Singlebrook will now choose our Tributes.’ 

Calypso stood, clearly excited to get away from Dimmock, and tottered over to stand between the fishbowls. 

Greg swallowed. Twenty-one of the slips in the left bowl held his name. Chancing a quick glance back at John, he locked eyes with first John, then Sally. 

Turning back to face the podium, just as Calypso drew the first name. 

‘Suzie Gates!’ 

There was a scream from someone behind the barricades, on the opposite side from John. Greg whipped his head around to see a young woman with ice-blonde hair and a severe face screeching, and reaching out across the barrier. 

‘No… no please no…’ 

There were quiet murmurings amongst the crowd, as a young girl was dragged forwards. She looked like she was just twelve years old, a tiny thing with delicate features. They were twisted in terror, her hands fisted in her skirt, as the Peacekeepers dragged her up on stage. 

Calypso didn’t react to her being placed right next to the fishbowl containing girls’ names. 

The murmurings amongst the crowd didn’t quiet. 

Calypso cleared her throat, and drew a name from the male fishbowl. 

‘Alexander Donovan.’ 


	3. Volunteer

No. 

No, that couldn’t be right. No, Greg was having a nightmare. 

‘No!’ Sally’s scream made it real. Greg whipped around to see Sally pushing against the barricades, but the Peacekeepers were faster, grabbing ahold of her and holding her back. Next to her, John was pushed away, but clung to the barrier with sheer determination. 

And everything stopped. 

Well, at least, it felt like it, for Greg. There was something, squeezing his heart. There was something weighing down his shoulders. 

‘No! No not Alex! Please, please don’t take Alex! No, you can’t! You can’t!’ Sally was screaming, screeching at the top of her lungs, tears trailing down her face. Her hair was flying around her face crazily, making her look like a woman possessed. In a way, she was. 

John had taken his eyes off Greg, and was watching Sally in fascinated horror. He was still clinging to the barrier, and had reached out to grasp Sam’s arm as well. 

Murmurs were dragging through the crowd, louder now, and behind him, Greg was aware of Alex’s wracking cough as he was dragged forwards by the Peacekeepers. 

What was it again? What was it about being brave? 

Being brave, being kind, those were the things Greg had always tried to do. Greg wanted to be brave, and he wanted to be kind. 

There was a little boy there, and if he went, he mightn’t even make it to the arena. He was sick. 

And Greg knew what he was going to do. He knew what was going to happen next. 

Pushing through the crowds of other kids, who parted like the red sea for Moses, time still felt like honey. He felt like he was wading through jam, but he pushed past anyway, and then vaulted the barricade to stop the Peacekeepers. 

He turned to face the podium, and said, as clearly and as loudly as he could, hoping that the desperation he felt wasn’t bleeding into his voice. 

‘I volunteer as Tribute.’ 

Everything after that was a complete blur. He did remember John’s eyes widening in shock, and horror. He remembered Sally’s screams staying at the same horrifying frequency, and Alex’s cough-wracked sobs, starting up behind him. 

At some point, the Peacekeepers grabbed him, and their hands were like vices around his upper arms. He was led up on stage. 

The camera crew were going crazy, flickering around like buzzards on a hot summers’ day. Suzie was whimpering softly next to him, and it’s all Greg can do to stand with his head held high, and look out over the blinding light. 

The square was silent, aside from Sally’s muffled screaming, and Suzie’s mother’s crying. Greg even fancied he could still hear Alex’s sobbing coughs. 

It’s as if someone placed earmuffs over his ears, so he couldn’t hear any longer. 

But he could still see. So of course, he saw when John runs, when John vaulted over the barrier just like Greg taught him, and sprints for the podium. The Peacekeepers couldn’t catch him, slippery bugger that he is. 

He just slipped through their fingers, and then leapt up onto the stage, colliding into Greg in an explosion of tears and angry fists. 

‘Why?’ John screams, ‘Why would you do that? Why? Why…’ 

Greg grabs John and lifts him, just as the Peacekeepers reach the podium, and climb the steps. No one on the podium is seated; Calypso has taken a step back, Dimmock is looking on in shock, and the Mayor has left his seat. 

‘John, John, my little soldier, shh…’ Greg calms, rubbing John's back carefully. The Peacekeepers have stopped running, have just paused, and appear to be awaiting orders. Greg realises that the Mayor has his hand out, holding them back. 

‘Well, this is… a bit of a turn up…’ said Calypso, her hands fluttering around her face. ‘Is this your son? If it is, can you please put him down? We need to do this properly!’ 

Greg doesn’t reply, just letting John cling to him and bury his sobbing face in Greg’s shoulder. ‘Shh, kid, come on, you’re gonna be fine.’ 

Later, Greg knows, the cameras will pick up that he’s crying, it will mark him as weak for the other competitors. But that doesn’t matter right now. 

‘Oh, just leave it,’ sighs the Mayor. ‘Lestrade, keep him quiet.’ 

The Mayor has a pained expression on his face. He doesn’t know Greg, not really, but he has seen the boy before. He has seen this boy take the younger one into his arms, his home and his heart. 

Nobody in District Ten hadn’t. 

John’s sobs are muffled in Greg’s shirt, as Greg holds him tight. 

‘Well, this is very much the spirit of the Games, ladies and gentlemen!’ flutters Calypso, excitedly.

Everyone in the square knows who that is, on the podium. Everyone has met Greg at least once, in the market, in town, with John. Those who haven’t are being told about that boy, the one with the kind face and the grey hair. The one who is generous and kind and brave and loyal to a fault. One who gives to those who need it, even if he needs it as well. 

And about the boy in his arms. The little blond who was rescued by the grey-haired teen. The one who is a son to that grey-haired teen, wearing bright red, hand-knit socks. 

‘What is your name?’ asks the woman with the pale skin and crazy hair who doesn’t belong here. Not now, not ever. 

‘Greg,’ replied Greg, ‘Gregory Lestrade.’ 

‘Well, Greg, I’m pleased that you’ve done this. This is truly something special. Everyone, a round of applause for Gregory Lestrade!’ 

The entire square is silent. Sally is sobbing, as are Maya, Molly, and others. Alex is coughing lowly, clutching at Molly. 

This silence, this is the best rebellion. This is the moment when the crowd says; ‘We do not condone this. This is not right.’ 

Calypso flutters her hands again, flustered. She clears her throat, awkwardly. 

Greg Lestrade has just become precious; a symbol of something. 

What something, they do not know. No-one knows. 

There are people who know, watching on the other side of a tele screen. But no one here knows. 

Dimmock stumbles towards them, throwing an arm around both Greg and John. ‘I like him!’ he warbles, ‘I do. I like this one. He’s got fire!’ 

***

The next half an hour passes in a blur. Thankfully for him, or perhaps for the one who attempted it, no one tries to seperate Greg and John. John clings to Greg as if his life depends upon it, as they are ushered down the hall into seperate rooms in the Justice Building. Suzie Gates’ eyes are wide and boggling in terror, and she’s shaking all over like a leaf. 

Greg tries to be more composed, holding John as tightly as he possibly can. John doesn’t speak to him. 

The room they are shown to is bare of anything except two sofas, facing one another. The rest of the room is windowless. 

Greg sits down in the sofa facing the door, and re-arranges John so the boy is more comfortable. Only then does he raise a hand beneath John’s chin, to meet his eyes. 

‘You can’t do this,’ whispered John. ‘You can’t. You can’t leave me.’ 

‘I’m not leaving you,’ replied Greg. ‘I’m always gonna be up here.’ 

He taps the side of John’s temple. 

‘Maybe,’ said John, ‘Maybe you’ll get out! Maybe you’ll be the lucky one! You’re good with swords, you’re good at surviving. You’re good at it, I know you are! You’ll do it!’ 

John nods, seemingly having convinced himself. Greg doesn’t want to pop the bubble, but he knows it’s best. He knows it’s kindest. 

‘John, look at me,’ Greg commands, ‘John, I don’t know if I’m coming back. I don’t think I am.’ 

John immediately breaks down in a fresh wave of sobs. ‘This… this isn’t fair… I can’t lose you… please Greg… please…’ 

‘I know, little soldier,’ whispers Greg, trying his best to comfort the sobbing nine-year-old. ‘I know.’

‘What the fuck, Greg!’

Sally’s screech is timed perfectly with her banging the door open, followed by Molly, Maya, Alex, Sam and Lottie. ‘What the fuck were you thinking? What the hell was going through your head?!’ 

‘I’ll tell you what was going through my head, Sal!’ Greg lifts to his feet, taking John with him. ‘I was thinking that Alex is sick. He wouldn’t have lasted a day in there and you know that! And I know you, Sally. You’ll hold yourself personally responsible for it. You’ll hold yourself responsible, and you’ll be angry, and you’ll do something you’ll regret. Something that gets you in trouble with the Capitol. 

‘I know you, Sal,’ he repeats, more calmly now. ‘I know what you’re like. You’ll do something that’ll anger the Capitol, and you’ll be killed. It’s better this way.’ 

‘How can you say that?’ whispers Molly. ‘How the fuck can you say that? You’re wrong. You are so wrong.’ 

‘Molls, it’s gonna be fine.’ 

‘You didn’t think this through, Greg,’ said Maya. ‘You didn’t think this through. Who’s gonna take care of John?’ 

‘I want to ask you to. I’m giving you my farm, Molls. I need you to take care of it. There’s a bed and a sofa, and its bigger than yours. You know it. You can move your family in there, and you’ll have enough room for your Mum and for Sam and John. I have the cattle, John knows how to take care of them.’

‘If you don’t come back,’ said Molly. 

‘ _When_ I don’t come back,’ Greg replied, definitively. ‘When I don’t come back, you’re going to take care of John. Please Molls. And Sally, please.’ 

‘I don’t want them to take care of me,’ John said, ‘I want you. I don’t want you to go off to that stupid game. I want you to stay here.’ 

‘I know,’ replied Greg. ‘I don’t want to go either, kid.’ 

He is reluctant to do so, but he leans over, and places John on the ground. John clings to him, and gently, but firmly, Greg tugs him free, pushing him towards Molly. 

‘Molls, can you take the kids and John outside for a bit? I need to talk to Maya and Sally.’ 

Molly grunts, angrily, but acquiesces, shunting all the young ears out of the room. 

Which prompts Sally to go on another rant. 

‘You can’t do this to me, Greggie, you can’t!’ 

‘Sal, stop.’ Greg’s tone gets the frizzy haired teen to stop in her tracks, and turn to face Greg. ‘Think about this logically. Alex would have been killed in there. In a day. If he didn’t die from his cough first. This was the only logical choice.’ 

Sally’s face morphs, angrily, and she leaps forwards, beating against his chest. ‘This. Isn’t. Logical. You. Bastard!’ 

‘Sally, please,’ Greg pleads, grabbing her wrists to stop her from beating him further. He can already feel the bruises forming. ‘Please, you gotta stop. You gotta calm down. I know this is hard right now, I know. But soon this will all be over. You’re gonna hop on that coach and had back to the town. You’re gonna take John with you, no matter how much he kicks and he screams. And you’re gonna be safe, and healthy and happy. 

‘Molly and her family are gonna move into mine, and you’re gonna have to help them build a little more of the house. You’re gonna watch John, and make sure he goes to school, and make sure he makes sensible decisions. You’re not gonna let him watch me die. If he wants to watch the Games, fine. But when you see me dying, when you see me coming close, then you take him, and you hide him away. You take him to mine and you destroy the telly if you have to.

‘I’ve saved Alex. That’s what I’ve done here. He’s gonna grow up and be an amazing kid. Just brilliant.’ Greg is tearing up. The words are hard to come out, now, there’s a huge lump in his throat. 

‘This is my fault,’ whispered Sally, hoarsely. ‘John’s gonna hate me. He’s gonna hate Alex.’ 

‘Don’t let him,’ Greg replied. ‘Don’t let him. Tell him it was my choice, because it was. This one is all me. It’s not him, it’s not you, it’s me. I’m doing what I think is right. He has so much of his life ahead of him. He does. I’m glad I got to save him.’ 

Sally collapses in a puddle of tears. Behind her, Maya is crying, sobbing into her hand, as she watches her girlfriend lose it. 

Greg takes a deep breath, steeling himself. 

‘Listen to me, Sal. You’re gonna be fine. You are. You’re gonna watch me go into that arena, and I’m gonna fight for my life. I am not going to give up. Do you understand? I’m gonna fight to the bitter end, and I’m gonna try and win. But you know as well as I do that I’m not going to survive this. I just need you to be there for John when this all comes apart.’ 

‘I know,’ whimpered Sally. ‘I know why you’re doing this. I do.’ 

‘And Sal, listen to me. You don’t do anything stupid. For me, for Alex, for John. For Maya, too. You don’t do anything stupid, you let me do what I’m going to do.’ 

‘Why are you doing this, Greg? Why did you pick now to be brave? Why can’t you just be a coward? I could have dealt with that, you know. Losing Alex. I can. I dealt with it when Mum and Dad died, I can do it again. I just… I just… John is going to hate me, if he doesn’t already. I… I feel so guilty.’ 

‘Stop, Sal. This ain’t your fault. I did what was right, you know that.’ 

Her tears stain Greg’s shirt, as they pour down her sable cheeks in rivulets of salty water. Maya has collapsed back onto those rich sofas, her hands running quickly through her hair. It is already accumulating grease, the honey locks matting under Greg’s eyes. 

‘Sal,’ Greg said, catching the older girl’s attention. ‘Sal, look at me. Let me do this. Let me be brave, the only way I know how. This is me being brave.’ 

‘You’re an idiot, you know that?’ Sally mumbled, through her tears. ‘You’re such an idiot. This is too brave. Too brave is stupid. You know that. You were the one who taught me that.’ 

There’s a moment of silence, punctuated only by quiet sobs. 

‘You’ll try to win, yeah?’ 

Sally can’t know it, but Greg has given up. He knows he can’t win. He’s one of the poor ones, one of the ones to weed out, right at the very start. He’s gonna run for his life, then stand and fight to his last breath, but he’s going to die. The kids from District One and Two are going to hunt him down, and kill him. 

‘Yeah. ‘Course,’ Greg said, instead. 

Sally laughs, through her tears. ‘Yeah. Then we’ll be as rich as Dimmock the Drunk. We’ll have parties every night and you and John’ll finally have seperate rooms. John can go to a great school here in town, and he’ll get the smarts to do whatever he wants.’ 

‘Definitely,’ replied Greg, gripping her forearms tight. 

They both know the truth. 

***

Molly comes back in. She’s fuming, but she can’t say what she thinks in front of the children. It’s so full of vitriolic swearing that John’ll break down in tears again. 

As it is, the blond leaps straight back into Greg’s arms, and it doesn’t look like he’ll let go. He and Greg whisper to each other. 

‘You promised me, last night,’ said John. ‘You promised me you’re always gonna be here for me.’ 

‘I am. You just need to remember me.’ 

They fall silent. 

‘You remember to do all your chores,’ said Greg, ‘You remember to help muck out the barn, and you make sure you feed the chickens. You take their eggs to the baker and he’ll give you bread. You take the milk to the market and you can get your veggies. There’s salted meat in the pantry, you know that.’ 

‘I don’t want to.’ 

‘Too bad, little soldier,’ replied Greg. ‘You’re gonna go to school with Molly, and you’re gonna be as good as you can be.’ 

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Carter. 

There’s a painful expression on his face; sympathy, horror, and sorrow for what he’s doing. 

‘Time’s up, Greg.’ 

‘Alright,’ Greg replied. He stood, taking John up with him, and steps over to Molly. 

Kissing her on the cheek, he whispered to her, ‘Don’t worry. You’re gonna be fine. I promise.’ 

‘ _Greg,’_ she replied, simply. ‘Please don’t do this.’ 

‘It’s a little late for that, I reckon.’ 

The little ones go next, hugging Greg’s legs. 

Alex hugs especially hard, holding onto Greg. 

‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘I know what you did for me. I won’t forget it, Mr Lestrade.’ 

‘You have a good life, okay, Alex?’ 

Alex nodded. 

Maya next. They don’t know each other well, but Greg gives her a hug and a kiss anyway. ‘You take care of Sally,’ he told her. ‘You take care of her, because she’s gonna be angry. 

‘She’s gonna be angry, and unhappy, and scared, and she’s gonna want to rage against the system. She’s gonna try and strike out, and you can’t let that happen. You understand? Those littles need her. _John_ needs her.’ 

‘I know,’ replied Maya, clutching at Greg. 

Sally comes next. She hugs him, but they’ve already said all the words they need to. She goes and waits by the door. 

‘Carter,’ Greg said, desperately. Carter grits his teeth, but nods. He holds up a single hand. 

Five. 

Greg kneels down, holding John to him. ‘You listen to me, little soldier. I know this hurts. I know your heart is breaking. But today, you are a soldier. You’re gonna be a brave soldier just like your tin soldier. You’re gonna walk outta here with your head held high. Sal’s gonna keep you safe. 

‘I told you last night that there are lots of people who love you. Lots of people who want to keep you safe. I mean that, alright? There are people who will always protect you, no matter what. They will do everything they can to keep you healthy, and fed, and happy. You just need to be brave. Can you do that?’ John swallowed, and nodded.

‘I’m gonna go into that arena, and I’m gonna be thinking of you. That’s all I’m gonna think about.’ 

‘You’ll try and win, won’t you?’ 

‘Of course,’ replied Greg, ‘I’m gonna try.’ 

‘And you’ll come back here.’ 

‘Yep. Definitely. And if you aren’t eating your veggies, I’ll know. Sally’ll tell me. And you’ll be in for the punishment of a lifetime. 

‘You’ll have to muck out the barn for a month, you hear me?’ 

John laughed, through his tears. 

‘Oh!’ he started, ‘I remember, you can take something into the arena with you, can’t you?’ 

‘Yeah…’ Greg replied. ‘I can. Why?’ 

‘I have something,’ said John, shyly, ‘I have something I made for you at school. Mr Mallory showed me how. I was gonna give it to you later, but I reckon I should give it to you now.’ 

John put his hand into his pocket, and pulled out the piece of wood he’d tucked there earlier. It was a tiny carving, crude, a bit uneven, but polished to a shine. Disc-like in shape, it consisted of a wooden ring, inside which was a tiny sword. It was crude, and a little rough on the back, and the hilt of the sword was just a touch wonky. 

‘It’s perfect,’ whispered Greg, holding it against his heart, between the two of them. 

‘I made it to look like your sword. Cause I know you can’t take your sword with you. So you should take this.’ 

‘I love it,’ said Greg. ‘And I love you. You know that, don’t you?’ 

‘I love you, too,’ replied John, throwing his arms around Greg’s neck, sniffling. ‘I’m gonna miss you.’ 

‘I’m gonna miss you too, little soldier.’ 

Greg swept John up into his arms one final time, lifting the tiny blond and heading for the door. Sally was still standing there, her eyes red and puffy. Maya was holding her hand, their knuckles squeezed so tightly that they were white. 

Gently, Greg passed John into Sally’s arms, but John didn’t relinquish his grip on Greg’s neck. It took both Greg and Sally to work their fingers into his, and work them off from Greg’s collar. 

‘You’re gonna be alright, little soldier. I promise.’ 

***

Greg had never been on a train before. The train to the Capitol was all shining chrome, long and sleek. The train station itself was a unique experience, even though Greg had seen it countless times on the tele screen before. This was where all the Tributes were taken. 

It wasn’t like anything else in the District. For one, it wasn’t run down, it was modern, curved and sleek. It had beautiful arches and hissing tracks that glowed in the dark. 

And the entire thing is swarming with cameras. It’s like a great beehive, the cameras buzzing about, taking picture after picture. Microphones are waved in Greg’s face, but he doesn’t react to any of them. 

He doesn’t cry. 

He needs to be brave. 

Cameras continue to be shoved in his face, but he ignores all of them, ushered onto the train behind Suzie, and in front of Dimmock. Calypso floats along in front of them all, her hands floating ubiquitously by her head. Her wig is askew. 

The door slides shut behind them, and Greg closes his eyes, breathing in the silence after what feels like an eternity. 

‘Come along, come along,’ gestures Calypso, pulling both Greg and Suzie along in her wake. ‘We have so much to do! So much to talk about!’ 

They are led down a hall of shining chrome to another sliding door. This one opens into a dining car, and a lounge car, resplendent with food. 

This food is like nothing Greg has seen before in his life. It’s all glistening hunks of meat, and crackly loaves of warm bread, perfectly soft on the inside. There are sparkling glasses of champagne, and small crystal glasses of water. 

Greg has only seen these things in propaganda films. 

The chairs look plush, and comfortable, and the floor is carpeted in rich reds, like the carpet in the Knights’ place, but much nicer. 

Greg realises he must be staring, because Dimmock taps him on the back, gesturing for him to enter the carriage. Greg follows after Calypso, with prompting, heading through to pull out a chair and take a seat. 

Next to him, Suzie does the same, and Dimmock and Calypso take their places on the other side of the table. 

‘Now,’ said Calypso, clapping her hands together, ‘We’re off to the Capitol! Aren’t you excited! I’m excited!’ 

‘Great,’ Greg drawled, leaning back in his chair. 

Suzie stays quiet. 

‘First things first,’ Calypso begins, trying to punctuate the silence with _something._ Dimmock just takes a sip of the beer that’s clearly been left out just for him. ‘We should watch who the Tributes are from the other Districts, yes?’ 

‘I suppose.’ 

‘Well, come on, can’t you at least get a little more excited? I’ve already got reports that you’re the talk of the Capitol, Mr Lestrade. Volunteering like that, and your son… oh, it’s simply marvellous!’ 

Greg feels anger, boiling in the pit of his stomach, but doesn’t reply. He just grits his teeth, and grips the knife sitting on the table that little bit harder. 

‘Let’s take a look, shall we?’ 

With that, Calypso pulls out a remote, pressing a few buttons. The tele screen appear, projected on the wall on the far side of the car. It begins with District Twelve. 

A miserable place, District Twelve, surrounded by beautiful mountains, but inside, the people look miserable. Their faces are streaked with ash, and their Square is covered with mud. The children all look haggard, and worn out. 

There are the expected, horrified screams of parents when the Tributes are chosen, a boy with dark hair named Andy and a girl with pale honey locks named Ella. They both look haggard, but the boy looks more downtrodden, more soot-streaked, with thin arms that look like they could snap in a gentle breeze. It’s heartbreaking. 

On the other hand, Ella, the girl, looks a little rounder in the cheeks, like she’s the daughter of someone with a little more money. 

No-one volunteers. 

The Capitol woman that’s there just ushers them quietly offstage, and then the footage goes to black. 

Next comes District Eleven. That is almost as hard to watch as District Twelve. Greg wasn’t even alive the last time Districts Eleven or Twelve won. He also hadn’t been alive the last time District Ten had a victor, but that was beside the point. 

The boy from District Eleven is young. Too young. He’s small, and wiry, and no-one volunteers for him, not even when he slips out of the Peacekeepers’ grasps, and grabs onto his mother, who is crying and screaming.

His name is Angus. 

The girl is more composed. She rises up the platform as best she can, but Greg can make out, in the very corners of her eyes, that she is crying. 

This is horrible. Soon, all these children will be dead. 

The girl is named Surie. It’s close enough to Suzie that it makes Greg look across at the platinum blonde girl. She’s still shaking, her hands white and her eyes wide. 

Next is them. District Ten. 

Greg can’t watch, but he forces himself to, as the cameras show Suzie then follow Alex, then Greg when he volunteers. Greg is amazed by how composed he seemed. At the time. 

There was something Greg heard, some time ago. Something about a duck on the water. A duck would float along the top of the water, serene as can be, but underneath the water, the duck is frantically paddling. 

That is him. 

The cameras zoomed in on Greg, then on John, who crashed through the middle of the podium, and straight into Greg. Greg watched himself as he swept the small body up into his arms, watched as the cameras zoomed in on what was a private moment between him and John. Focused on the tears running down the blond’s cheeks. 

And Greg fumed. He gripped the knife tighter in his hand, tears prickling behind his eyes, as Calypso on the screen flutters about like a butterfly in a glass jar. 

Greg knew that what he was seeing, the rest of Panem was also seeing. Everyone knew, now, about John. 

If the Capitol did its research, they would know what John’s parents had done. They would also know what John was to him. What Greg had done for John. 

But it had to be enough. He had to work hard, had to keep it together. 

John would watch this, later. John was going to have to watch him to the very end. Greg could only hope that Sally would see it coming, that Sally would know when to shield John. When to hide the boy away, and not let him come out. 

Then it would all be over. 

Greg looked away from the screen. He couldn’t watch any more of what happened. 

He knew it all too well. He knew what it had felt like, at that exact moment, watching John get his hopes for their future together shattered. 

He knew John wouldn’t be under any delusions at all. This was a death sentence. Greg was headed for his execution. All for the sins of people who came before, people who Greg wasn’t even sure had sinned. 

Suddenly, Greg could understand Sally’s burning fury. Sally’s utter hatred of the Capitol, of everything that it did to them. All Greg wanted, right in that moment, was to burn. To slash and tear everything down to the ground, to rip his way out of this train and run all the way home, back to John. 

Back to those nights of reading storybooks to the younger boy, tickling his toes. Back to their morning routine of jam and shoes and barns that smelt like cow shit no matter how many times Greg and John mucked it out. Back to banter with Sally, and hugs from Molly, and the smell of fresh bread down at the baker’s. 

His life. Everything he had, his tiny little corner of perfection. 

This rage was all consuming, a fire that burnt him out inside, made him boil. It made his lungs ache and his veins hurt and his brain feel like it had been set ablaze. He was angry. 

This had all been taken from him. 

What had he ever done to deserve this? What had he done except be kind, and brave? He just wanted to give John a better place, a better world than what he had been given. 

And he hoped that Sally didn’t ask John to take out tesserae. He should only have to be entered a few times, maximum. He shouldn’t have to go through this. 

Greg squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to let the tears fall. Digging his nails into his palms, into the fleshy heels of his hands, he looked up. 

The screen was still playing the Reapings. 

The next few Districts passed in a blur. 

‘Y’know what’s comin’ next,’ slurred Dimmock, over his bottle, ‘The Career Districts.’

‘I know,’ muttered Greg, looking anywhere but at Calypso and Dimmock. ‘Districts One and Two. The trained ones.’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Dimmock. 

‘Now, now, they don’t get any special treatment,’ insisted Calypso. Greg just scoffed, breathing out through his nose in a rapid flush of air. 

‘Bullshit.’ 

‘Language, Gregory!’ admonished Calypso. 

Greg didn’t have it in him to argue. 

District Two Reaping was flashing up on the screen now. District Two was drab, but not as bad as District Twelve. Their Square was terraced, the terraces full of people, spectators, looking down on the Reaping podium as if it were some sort of entertainment. 

The names of the Tributes are called. Greg doesn’t even bother to listen; those who are Reaped from the Career Districts never actually end up in the Arena. 

‘ _I volunteer as Tribute._ ’ The words are clear over the speaker system. It’s a young woman, with long, curled, dark hair, and dark eyes. She’s quite conventionally attractive. 

‘ _Janine Hawkins,_ ’ she said her name was. She smiled, as if she’d won some sort of great prize, waving at the crowds benevolently. 

Next, the male Tribute volunteers. ‘ _Jim Moriarty,_ ’ he said, his grin wide. 

Greg leaned in a little, peering at the screen. 

There was something about that one. Something dangerously unhinged, something around his eyes that makes him seem insane. He is insane, just from the way he’s grinning at the crowds as he swanned up to take his place beside Janine. 

His eyes were black as pitch, soulless depths as the camera zoomed in on the pair, focusing on each face, one after the other. Janine’s face is almost kind, but Moriarty’s is just cruel. Something about the arch of his nose, the twist of his lips. 

Greg wanted to be sick. 

‘And, District One,’ Dimmock cued. Greg had no idea how many times he would have had to go through this. 

This District is even nicer than the previous. More terraces, made of gleaming marble. Beautiful banners flying around, a larger Square that just squeezes more people in. More people to gape at their victors. 

First, the female Tribute volunteers. 

‘ _Irene Adler_.’ 

Immediately, cheers erupt amongst the people. It seemed like she was a favourite. It isn’t hard for Greg to tell why. She had a killer figure, clothed in a tight dress that hugs her form perfectly. Her lips are coated in red, and her eyes flash dangerously on her own close-up. 

Greg blinks. 

Then, the male volunteer steps up to the podium. 

The first thing that Greg hears is Dimmock, swearing. 

‘Fuck. Oh, fuck a duck.’ 

It was almost funny. 

The man who appeared was tall, taller than Irene, even though the wore heels. He had dark, thick hair that curled neatly over his head, slicked back with just a single curl over one arched, elegant brow. His lips were small, and pursed, and his nose was long, and hooked. It remind Greg of the eagles that sometimes fly overhead back in the District. 

He wore a dark, three-piece suit, with a chain, that made him look older than eighteen. The chain, shining under the coat, linked to what was clearly a pocket-watch. In one hand, he loosely grasped an umbrella. His other hand was casually resting in his pocket. 

However, the most arresting feature of the man was his eyes. His eyes were a deep grey that seemed to shift and morph, depending on the angle of the light. They flashed from slate to ocean on a stormy day to storm clouds to midnight within the space of just a few seconds. They also seemed to peer right down the camera, fixing Greg in place with their gaze. It felt like the man was peering into his soul, into the very heart of him, and judging what stood there. 

It felt like staring into the face of a predator. 

‘Buggering _fuck._ ’ 

And Calypso didn’t correct his language. Greg quickly realised that she herself was seemingly just as entranced by the man on the screen. It was like watching the effects of one of those hypnotic snakes, who captured their prey through eye contact alone. 

‘Who _is_ that?’ asked Greg. 

‘ _Mycroft Holmes,_ ’ the man seemingly replied. ‘ _I volunteer as tribute._ ’ 

His voice was deep, gravelly, and had a posh turn to it that Greg didn’t want to admit was ever so slightly attractive. 

Dimmock threw out a hand, slamming it on the pause button of the remote. 

‘Shit.’ 

‘Who’s Mycroft Holmes?’ asked Greg. ‘I’m guessing it’s not good.’ 

‘No,’ replied Dimmock, somehow speaking almost soberly, if it weren’t for the slight slur to each of his words. ‘Mycroft Holmes… well… I’d heard of him. I’ve been hearing about him for years from the District One coaches. Apparently he’s the greatest candidate to ever come out of their Academy. He’s deadly, Lestrade, He’s a seventeen-year-old killing machine. A tactician, with a genius that’s apparently unparalleled, and the physical strength to back it up. He can wield any form of weapon you place before him. I didn’t think he was going to volunteer until next year.’ 

‘But… but we can still beat him, right?’ asked Suzie, her voice shaking. 

Dimmock looked up at the girl, his eyes wide. 

‘Calypso, can you take her? I need to speak to Lestrade. Alone.’ 

Calypso fluttered to her feet. ‘Of course. Come along, dear,’ she prompted, tugging Suzie to her feet, and out of the room. 

As soon as the door shut behind them, Dimmock got to his feet, swigged the rest of the beer, then slammed the bottle down on the table. He strode over to the picture of Mycroft Holmes, still projected up on the screen for all to see. 

‘I’m going to be honest with you, Lestrade. I reckon you can survive. If I had to pick any one of those eighteen year olds in the Square today to win the Games, I would have picked you. 

‘I knew your father. I knew what he could do, and I also know what he must have taught you, at least. If it were any other year, I reckon you might even have a shot. 

‘But this man,’ he gestured to Mycroft’s face. ‘This man is _death._ He is literal death, and that little girl, that tiny little thing out there is gonna die on the first day. You’re gonna die, too, and it’s probably gonna be at this man’s hands. 

‘You can run all you want, Lestrade, but he’s gonna hunt every single one of you down, and kill you, slowly, methodically, one by one. I thought Moriarty, the one from District Two, was bad enough. He’s insane. That can be dealt with. But this one isn’t. He’ll play nice with the rest of the Career pack for as long as it suits him, then he will kill them all. 

‘From what I’ve heard, nothing, and no-one stands a chance against him. This is the winner. Mycroft Holmes is the Victor of the 74th Hunger Games. It’s barely going to be a competition.’ 


	4. Tribute

They watched the run of District One’s Reaping once more; Dimmock re-rolling the tape and then playing it from the beginning. Greg watched Mycroft ascend the podium, his head held high and his eyes shimmering in the light. 

The other boy was captivating, in a word. Like a peacock, showing off his feathers. He was seemingly unaffected by the entire process, his shoulders straight, and his eyes narrowed. 

There was one moment, where Greg saw his eyes dart to the side, into the crowd, but it was just a single moment, a single tiny glance that likely meant nothing. Despite that, Greg followed his eyes, briefly, to where the crowds could be seen, right on the edge, near the ubiquitous barricades. An older woman stood there, wearing purple, her hair coiffed neatly around her head. She wasn’t looking at the camera, or even up at the podium. Instead, her eyes, and her hands, were fastened on the shoulders of a young boy, one who looked like he was even younger than John. Soft, black curls piled up on his head, and his pale skin was bright in the sunlight, blending into the marble of the square. 

Greg couldn’t make out his eyes, as he was looking intently towards the podium. No discernible reaction could be found on the boy’s face. 

It must have just been a coincidence. 

After the second repeat, Dimmock sighed, took another swig of a fresh bottle of beer, and then put his head in his hands. 

Greg looked at Dimmock, almost curiously. 

District Ten didn’t win Games. Greg couldn’t even imagine what Dimmock had gone through, on top of all the survivor’s guilt. He’d seen similar things in John; blaming himself for being the only one who got out with his life, out of himself and his parents. It was illogical, but that didn’t make it any less real. 

‘What do I do?’ asked Greg, softly. 

Dimmock didn’t answer, just taking another swig of the bottle of beer. 

‘Well?’ asked Greg. Dimmock leant back, sighing, and crossed his arms. 

Greg had seen the man before, he’d come to the town before. When they had found the liquor washed up in barrels on the beach, and Dimmock had come and swept up nearly half of it, tossing handfuls of gold in his wake. ‘You said you knew my father,’ he murmured, after a moment. 

‘Yes,’ replied Dimmock. ‘I did.’ 

‘Why did he make you think I was a survivor. Good enough to be a Victor?’ 

‘Because _he_ was a survivor,’ said Dimmock. ‘He always fought to the bitter end for what he believed in, but he did it sensibly, with caution and picking which battles to fight.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg muttered, ‘and it still got him killed.’ 

‘No,’ Dimmock burst, standing, and slamming his hands down on the table. His alcohol-infused breath sweeps over Greg’s cheeks, and fills his nose with the foul scent. ‘It didn’t get him killed. The Capitol killed him, just like it killed your little boy’s parents, and just like it’s gonna kill you!’ 

‘You can’t say things like that!’ Greg yelled back, ‘You can’t, because it ain’t gonna help anyone. Not me, and not that little girl out there who is so scared and so alone right now.’ 

‘No, it ain’t gonna help her. I can’t help her, and neither can you. Your best hope is that she goes quickly and quietly!’ 

‘Shut up!’ 

Silence reigned. 

‘Just… shut up,’ whispered Greg, collapsing back into his seat. ‘I made a promise to John, that I would fight to the bitter end. I don’t care what you think, and I don’t care about this Mycroft Holmes. If he kills me, so be it, but I’m gonna fight to the bitter end until he does. And you’re gonna help me do it.’ 

Greg had realised, at this point, that Dimmock was one of the reasons that those rich people in the Capitol, the ones who sponsored the Games didn’t sponsor the kids from District Ten. He didn’t help, acting like a drunken fool all the time. Not someone who the rich would want to deal with. 

Dimmock collapsed back into his seat, with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He reached a hand out for his drink, and Greg felt a sudden swell of anger in the pit of his stomach, like the anger he had felt before. 

It was overpowering, strong enough to prompt him to grab the knife that was clenched loosely in his fist, and, with all the precision he could muster in a small, thin, badly balanced weapon like this, drove it into the wood of the table between Dimmock’s fingers, only just missing impaling the delicate, veined skin between the appendages. 

‘Enough,’ said Greg, with as much definition and power as he could muster. ‘You are going to stop. You are going to help both Suzie and I, to fight and cling on for as long as we possibly can. You’re gonna help me strategise, and you’re gonna be emotional support for Suzie. I shouldn’t have to tell you this. You’re our coach.’ 

Greg glared intently at the older man, until he seemed to cave, his hand retreating from the knife. 

Looking up at Greg, he chuckled. ‘You are every bit your father’s son.’ 

Greg wasn’t sure if that was a compliment. 

***

Greg was thankful that the District Ten tributes always arrived at night. Quite late, as well, so there were only a few cameras and curious eyes in the station in the Capitol. 

Unfortunately, that also meant that only the most fanatic about the Games were present. As well as a few camera crews that mostly stuck to the shadows. 

But those Capitol residents that treated the Games almost like one would a religion, they gathered around the station even this late at night, just to peer at those who were arriving. Their eyes were wide, and curious, watching like a pack of hungry vultures. 

Greg leant down, and grasped onto Suzie’s hand, just like he would to John’s, and tugged her insistently after Calypso, who was tottering up ahead. The station was dark, and sleek, with a great deal of open space. He could clearly see out into the Capitol.

The glimmering spires were lit up brilliantly by fluorescent lights that shimmered every colour of the rainbow. Figures buzzed about in the windows, and Greg could see that the night life was buzzing, people in crazy-coloured clothing and insane hairdos ambling up and down the streets.

A great number of them were clearly under the influence, leaning heavily against their fellows and laughing loudly. The advantage of this was that no-one seemed to notice that there were two Tributes being tucked into a dark car, and driven off towards the Tribute tower. 

Greg had seen the tower before, on the tele screen back home. 

_That_ only served to remind him what was happening right now, back home. How John and Sally and Molly and all the others would be closing their windows and doors. 

He could only hope that they were doing their best to keep John safe. John was going to have nightmares, tonight. He was going to cry, and be scared, and if he slept a wink, it would be a surprise. 

Greg could feel the tears prickling behind his eyes at the thought, and only hoped that Molly, Maya and Sally had the good sense to stay with him. They had their families, but John needed them. Sally had promised. 

He missed that kid. He missed John, he did. It was eating him up inside, making him want to run, run all the way back to the District, back to their little, warm corner of heaven. 

John, snuggled up against him under the quilts, snoozing with his socked feet against Greg’s shins. Gladstone snoring in a pile at the foot of the bed, and a kitchen full of food easily gotten. 

Greg closed his eyes. 

***

‘John.’ 

‘John, please.’ 

‘John, you need to listen to me, because this is important.’ 

Sally pleaded to the small blond, curled up in a ball, clutching his feet and a small, rough, tin soldier. His body was trembling with the cold, but he had refused the quilt. 

Greg’s dog, Gladstone, was whimpering softly on the bed next to John, nosing at his master’s adoptive son. ‘John,’ whispered Sally, ‘please.’ 

There was no response. 

Molly was standing in the door to the bedroom, flush with darkness and only lit by the flickering light of the candle on the bedside table. She had Sam, snoozing in her arms, and both Alex and Maya standing just behind her. Sally looked up at them desperately. 

‘Please, help me,’ she mouthed at them. 

Molly set Sam down, and quietly stepped into the room. 

‘How long’s he been like this?’ asked Molly. 

‘I don’t know,’ Sally replied. I had to pop back to mine to make sure that the sheep were back inside, and then I had to do the same for Greg’s cattle. I left him at the door, pushed him inside, I thought he was alright, I did!’ 

‘Sally,’ Molly gritted her teeth, ‘how could you do that? You’re… I…’ 

‘I know,’ Sally said, looking down at her hands in shame. John’s tiny body was still shivering between them. 

‘Do you, Sally? Because this doesn’t look like it.’ 

‘How could he do this to us?’ Sally looked up at her, desperately. ‘How could he?’ 

‘He did it for you, you stupid…’ Molly trailed off, fury in her voice. ‘He knows you, Sal. He knows what you’re like. If Alex had been taken, can you honestly tell me with certainty that you wouldn’t have done anything? That you would have let it happen?!’ 

‘Yes!’ Sally snorted. 

There was a moment of silence. 

Sally looked away. ‘No,’ she reiterated, her voice smaller, shy, and full of horrified shame. 

‘And you would have been killed. I know you, Sal. I know what you’re like. It’s not a fault of yours, you stand up for what you believe in. But it would have gotten you killed, this time. And there are kids who need you.’ 

‘I know,’ said Sally. 

‘I know you know. But I think I need to say it as well. I have to remind you of why he did this. And why you have a duty to take care of John, now. You and me, and Maya, we’re a team now. We have to fill the huge hole that Greg’s left behind.’ 

‘I just… I just want him back.’ 

‘I know.’ 

‘It’s not fair.’ 

‘I know.’ Molly reached out a hand, and laid it gently on Sally’s shoulder. ‘And it’s gonna be hard, I know.’ 

‘How… how are you doing this? How are you so calm?’ 

‘I’m not,’ replied Molly. ‘But there’s something Greg once told me. After Dad died. He told me that everyone has a circle of things they can change, and things they can’t. And your circle of things you can change is always smaller than the things you can’t, and you just have to accept that.

‘Right now, we can’t do anything to change Greg’s fate, we can only hope and pray that he’ll be smart, that he’ll do what he needs to do, and try his best to get back to us.

‘We need to take care of John. For Greg. Because that’s something we can change.’ 

‘Because we promised,’ finished Sally. ‘I know. I just wish I didn’t.’ 

‘It’s shit. I know it’s fucked, Sal. It is.’ 

‘I don’t know how,’ Sally admitted, in a small voice. Molly looked at her. 

‘Of course you do. You did it for Alex and Lottie after your Mum died. And you’re just gonna have to do it again. And I’ll help, and so will Maya.’ 

‘Okay,’ agreed Sally, nodding. 

There was a beat of silence. 

‘Will you leave me with him, just for a little while?’ asked Molly. 

‘Sure,’ replied Sally, sniffling and rubbing at her eyes, before pushing to her feet, and patting Gladstone on the back. Moving out, towards the door, she laid a hand on the frame, looking back into the small, but homely room. ‘What’re you gonna do?’ 

‘Nothing,’ Molly replied. ‘I’m only gonna talk. And if John wants to listen, he’ll listen.’ 

Sally bit her lip, but nodded, and gathered Lottie and Alex to her, before pushing them from the door. Maya followed her out, into the living room. Lottie and Alex immediately took a seat on the couch, while Maya paused, in the kitchen. Looking back at her, Sally watched the painful expression flash across her friend’s… partner’s face. 

Stepping back into the kitchen, Sally laid a hand on Maya’s shoulder, before drawing the smaller, slighter woman into a hug. Maya buried her wet face against Sally’s shoulder. 

‘Greg ain’t coming back, is he?’ Maya asked.

‘I dunno, honey, I don’t,’ Sally replied. ‘I’m gonna hope, for John’s sake, and for everyone’s, but I dunno.’ 

‘I didn’t know him well,’ Maya whispered. ‘I feel bad for that. He was always so kind to me.’ 

‘He was so kind to everyone,’ Sally whispered. ‘That’s the point. That’s the whole, damn point.’ 

‘John, listen to me,’ Molly laid down, behind John. Lying a hand over the dip in John’s waist, she whispered into the back of that blond head. 

‘I know your heart is breaking. I know you’re hurting, but you have to have hope. Greg’s a fighter, you know that. And he has something to come back to. He’s gonna fight as hard as he possibly can to come back here to you. To all of us, if he can.’ 

‘Molly, why did Greg have to do that?’ asked John, his voice trembling. ‘Why did he leave me?’ 

‘Because Greg is kind. Because Greg is so kind that he loves everyone and everyone loves him. He works so hard to make sure that everyone’s gonna be okay. And he did it for you more than anyone else ‘cause he loves you. You know that.’ 

‘If he loves me so much, then why did he go? Is… is it me? Am I just not good enough?’ 

Molly’s heart shattered. 

Those words, coming out of that tiny mouth, shouldn’t happen. No nine-year-old should ever have to ask that. And Molly curses the day that Gregory Lestrade was born, for making him in such a way that this little boy was entirely dependant on him for all his verification and love. Now his heart was breaking, and everyone else’s would along with it. 

‘Greg… Greg’s a fighter. And he isn’t leaving you, he’s keeping other people safe,’ said Molly. ‘You know little Alex? If Greg hadn’t gone, Alex would have had to. Greg’s too kind, and loves Sally too much to let that happen.’ 

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re a family. We’re all a family. Greg loves you like your Dad loved you, and like your Mum loved you.’ 

‘I don’t… I can’t…’ 

John broke down, his tears salty and cold on his small, round cheeks. His limbs went slack, the tight ball he’d been holding himself in collapsing on itself. Gladstone whimpered, and nosed at John’s cheeks, to no avail. 

‘I know, sweetheart, I know.’ 

Molly doesn’t mention the tears on her own face. 

***

Greg doesn’t notice much of the space they’re ushered into; simply collapsing on the bed that Calypso pushes him towards. 

It’s a lovely thing - huge and soft and warm, at least double the size of what he and John have back home. The room itself is luxurious and toasty warm, even this late at night. Greg’s toes aren’t cold, for what feels like the first time in forever, and his belly isn’t growling the way it normally would. 

Despite that, all he can think about is John. John’s face, when he had to leave that last time, Sally’s eyes and accusations and screams, and the tiny faces of those under their care. Molly’s dismay. 

Everything he’s missing. 

Briefly, he wondered what it would be like if he wasn’t here. 

He would be in bed with John. John would be asleep, clutching his tin soldier and wriggling his toes against Greg’s shins. 

They would have had dinner, something nice and warm toasted over the fire, probably would have done it with Molly and Sally and their lot. Molly’s Mum might have even dug herself out of her hole and joined them in celebrating surviving another Reaping. 

Greg remembered fondly that he had a tiny bit of chocolate, barely enough for two bites, stored away precious in the pantry. Just for an occasion like the Reaping, after which John would be scared and a little afraid, and the chocolate would have helped. 

Then they would wake up next morning, and John would help him muck out the stables and feed the cattle and help Sally take what wool she had left down to the market. 

He would have taken John to see the dog he had slain. 

Was that only last night? It felt like an eon ago, but Greg knew that wasn’t how time worked. 

Everything had changed, now. Nothing was going to be the same. 

***

The next morning dawned bright and early. The room was entirely silent - a strange sensation for someone used to the near constant sounds of the District drifting through their window. 

Greg didn’t want to get up. The light was warming his eyelids, flushing his vision in warm yellows and pinks. 

‘Greg?’ A softly wavering voice came from the open doorway. 

‘Yeah?’ replied Greg, refusing to open his eyes. Suzie just remained by the door. 

‘Calypso says you have to get up now.’ 

‘Alright,’ replied Greg, ‘I’ll come in just a moment.’ 

The sounds of Suzie closing the door quietly and padding off down the hall let him finally face the day. Opening his eyes, he reluctantly sat upright and stretched, yawning. 

The room he found himself in was a lovely, large, airy space with an enormous window looking out over the Capitol on the other side of the room, opposing the door. It shows a scene of a bustling city, Capitol citizens meandering easily up and down the large, grey walkways. 

Spires rear high into the sky, figures moving behind the glass. 

The Capitol is rich with colour that just isn’t seen in the Districts. Rich, vibrant blues and reds and purples. Brilliant oranges, and greens that are just too green. 

Everything is too unnatural, making Greg’s eyes hurt. 

Sighing, Greg turns away from the window to look through the closet on the other side. It is covered by a large, white, sliding panel, which easily slides back on just a light touch. It reveals a chest of drawers, and a series of hangers with simple coats and button-ups hanging from them. 

All of it is nicer than anything he has ever owned. Any of it would feed him and John for a week. 

A single coat from here might keep them in bread for a month. 

Greg reaches out, trailing a finger through the rich fabrics, before moving onto the drawers. Pulling them open, it reveals stacks of trousers, and pants, made of strange fabrics and materials he had never seen before. 

It is a far cry from the rough hessian that chafes against his body on a near-constant basis. These feel soft enough that they would slip out of his hands when he raised them too high. 

Picking out a simple set of loose trousers that seem appropriate, and a soft, plain top, Greg shuts the closet once more. Pulling on the pieces, he feels like he should enjoy the feel of it against his skin. He can’t bring himself to, though, because he knows what it means.

These luxuries; it is a reminder of what they do not have. What _John_ does not have, and likely never will have. It’s heartbreaking. 

Suddenly, Greg remembers. 

The small, rough, wooden sword pendant that John had made for him. It was still tucked into the pocket of his Reaping Day trousers. 

Quickly throwing himself to the floor and digging through the pockets of the material that now feels like barbed wire on his fingers, he finds it with a triumphant cry. 

It is still in perfect condition, dully reflecting a little of the sunlight bathing the room. Greg needed to find some twine, or cord, to use to tie around his neck. 

Tucking it into his pocket, but keeping a hand around it as if it is a precious jewel he cannot afford to lose, he steps out of the room. Because it is a precious jewel. Something he cannot lose, no matter what. It is the only thing he has left of home, and he’ll be damned if he loses it. 

Out in the main living area - a large room with a dining table and soft lounge chairs, as well as an enormous tele screen taking up a large portion of the left wall - the rest are waiting for him. 

Suzie, Dimmock and Calypso are all gathered around a table in the same arrangement they had the night previous. Suzie is wolfing down a bread roll, one she had taken from the overflowing basket in the middle of the room. 

The table here is, once again, heaving with meats and veggies and fruits - some of which Greg is certain he has never seen before. There are crystal jugs full of some sort of orange liquid, and brown liquid in ceramic mugs. 

‘Ah, Gregory!’ simpered Calypso, fluttering her hands in the air. 

‘Morning,’ replied Greg, moving hesitantly towards the table. 

Quickly, one of the silent servants that had been standing around the edges of the room move towards him, pulling out the seat. 

Greg nods at her in thanks, and pulls the chair in himself, leaning forwards to look at the food. 

He is struck with an immediate sense of confusion - unsure exactly where to start. He has the almost-overwhelming urge to simply grab, to grab and stuff and eat as much as he possibly can because he might never eat again. 

It is a difficult thing to resist, but he does it anyway. 

Instead, he takes a bread roll from the heap on the table, and some ham from a silver platter. 

‘Tea?’ queries Calypso, holding up a round vessel that steams from the odd spout attached to it. 

‘Umm…’ 

‘Oh, dear, you’ve never had tea before?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer, ‘It’s lovely in the mornings, a right good thing to pick you up.’ 

‘That sounds lovely,’ said Greg, nodding his thanks, and holding out the empty, clear glass. 

Calypso tutted. ‘No, dear, the other one.’ She gestured to the ceramic mug. 

‘Oh,’ Greg corrected, dropping the glass and picking up the mug, offering it to her and grasping the handle as tight as he can. 

Calypso pours out a generous helping of semi-clear, brown liquid. Greg takes the mug back with another nod of thanks, and takes a sip. 

It’s warm, and slightly savoury, and almost burns going down. But it also warms him from the inside, spreading out from his belly and his throat to fill his veins and toes and lungs with its warmth. 

Greg doesn’t know if he has ever felt this warm in his life. 

‘Thank you,’ he said, more sincerely this time. Calypso just smiles. 

Next to him, Suzie piped up. 

‘The other Tributes are coming today, yeah?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Dimmock, wiping his face on a handkerchief nearby, ‘The ones from Seven, Three, One and Two are already here, and Five should be arriving within the hour. The rest will be here before the end of today.’ 

Greg wants to scream, all of a sudden. Who cares when the Tributes are coming? Who cares if their train overturns - they are probably all going to die, anyway. 

Dimmock looks at him, sharply, as if he can tell what Greg is thinking. Greg knows he can’t, so he just gazes back. 

‘Yes, yes,’ flutters Calypso, filling the silence with whatever she can. ‘And you will have get ready for the Opening Ceremony. It’s tomorrow, you know. You’ll have stylists, and a prep team, and everyone will be doing their best to make you look incredible for the ceremony tomorrow. Oh, it is simply the _best!’_

The stupid Capitol accent is already giving Greg a headache. 

He knows how this all works. He knows how the Tributes are marched down Tribute Parade like chickens to the slaughter. Just so these facetious, empty-headed people can gape at the children they’ve condemned. Sally’s vitriolic, acidic anger is a near constant simmer in the pit of his stomach. 

But it doesn’t matter. 

There is silence. 

There is a lot of silence amongst them. 

Calypso is clearly searching for something to fill the silence. 

‘Isn’t that exciting?’ she asked. No one answered her. 

She cleared her throat. ‘Well, I’m so glad that you are eating so politely. The ones last year just used their hands to shove everything in their sight into their mouths!’ 

She shudders, delicately. 

Greg growls, lowly. The kids last year had nothing. They had been beggars, children orphaned on the streets just like John could have been if Greg hadn’t found him. 

He knew table manners only thanks to Sally’s Mum, who had taught him to use a fork and knife. 

Suzie smiled, at the compliment, but it was a tiny thing. A tiny upraising of those small lips, a small dimpling of those twelve-year-old cheeks. 

No twelve-year-old has ever won the Games. The youngest to ever win was Angelo Milano, at fourteen, from District Six. He’d only survived by hiding, and outliving the competition. 

That year had been depressing. Just a bunch of kids starving in a desert. 

***

After breakfast, Greg quickly moved to find a bit of cord for his pendant. Reluctant to ask one of the many servants that seem to be littered around the enormous place, he instead tries to rummage through drawers in his room, and the bathroom. 

Eventually, he comes across a pair of boots that lace up with a long, thin piece of strong cord. It’s just the right length to fit around his neck, and he quickly fastens John’s pendant to the centre, before tying it around his neck. 

Nothing fancy, just a rough, wooden thing on the end of a shoelace, but it is suddenly the most important thing he has. 

Clutching it to his heart, Greg collapsed on the floor of his closet, leaning his head against the nearby wall. The wall is cool, and hard, and it is almost enough to ground him in reality. 

This is all so _damn_ hard. So hard. 

He can’t remember, right now, why he volunteered for Alex. It is so hard, right now, to keep ahold of what it is he had done, and why he had done it. He had done it for that poor, tiny kid who would have died on the first day. 

He had done it for Sally, and for Maya, and Molly. 

But he hadn’t done it for John. 

He should have stayed with John. 

That is what he thought, against the wall of the closet hundreds of miles from where he wants to be most right now in the whole world. It is a selfish thought, to be sure, but with the rough edge of the wooden pendant digging into his hand, and the cord working a sore into the back of his neck, he thinks it. 

Immediately, the thought is dismissed. 

He has to be as brave as he knows how to be, right now. Gregory Lestrade is no coward. He is not. 

He promised John. He promised Sally. He had promised everyone, really, that he was going to try. 

Greg swallows dryly against the dehydration in the back of his throat. There is nothing he can do right now. This is life. This is his choice, and at least he had that. At least he made the choice to go. 

At least he decided to do this. He wasn’t forced away from his family. He chose to go to say another, and that was more than could be said for a lot of the kids here. 

Even for Mycroft Holmes and Jim Moriarty and the other ruthless Careers who certainly didn’t volunteer for the kids they saved. They volunteered for their own ends. 

For their own glory. 

‘Greg?’ 

The soft voice of Suzie comes from the doorway where the younger girl had woken him that morning. 

Greg took a deep breath, to compose himself, and pushed up to his feet, going out to look at the other Tribute. Her soft, blonde locks were messy around her round face, and excitement was shining in her eyes. 

‘I found something!’ Suzie said, excitement in her voice. ‘Come look?’ 

‘Okay,’ replied Greg, plastering a grin on his face. ‘What is it?’ 

‘Shh,’ whispered Suzie, ‘It’s a secret. I don’t know if we can go up there really.’ 

‘Oh, are you already breaking the rules, Suzie?’ he teased her. 

Something about her, in that moment, was immediately reminiscent of John. He couldn’t help but draw the comparisons between the two blonds, both young, and excitable, and it was going to break his fucking heart when this kid was killed. 

‘This way,’ she gestured, leading him down another hallway to where a door proclaiming, ‘Exit’, was located. 

Suzie pushed it open to reveal a small set of concrete stairs, far removed from the richly carpeted interior. She sprinted up the stairs, not waiting a moment for Greg to slip through the door and close it behind himself. 

‘C’mon, Greg,’ she called back to him. Greg grinned, honestly, for the first time in what felt like an eon, but had been less than twenty-four hours ago, on the coach to the Reaping. ‘You’re so slow! How are you ever going to beat me in the real arena?’ 

And back to reality. 

‘Yeah, yeah,’ replied Greg, his grin falling. 

The journey up the stairs was long, Suzie always a little ahead of him. At the final set, she pushed open another door that looked like the one from their floor. It opened into blindingly bright light, and a fresh breeze ghosting down over Greg’s face. 

It made him speed up; leaping up the final few steps into the sunlight. 

When Greg’s vision cleared, adjusting to the sudden brightness, he realised they must be on the roof of the Tribute centre. Lush greenery surrounded them, a small, manicured garden paradise atop their heads. 

Suzie was already leaping through the grass and bushes, peering curiously at the strange flowers and looking out over the city. 

Their tower was nowhere near as large as some of the other ones dotted about, but that was no matter. 

Curious, Greg moved over towards the edge of the roof, towards the tiny concrete lip there. Halting just before, he reached out a hand, farther, farther, until he encountered something solid. 

It was as if his hand had hit a solid brick wall. 

What had he expected? For there to be a free-access suicide mechanism for the Tributes to just escape? 

No. That would have been too easy.

‘Greg?’ Suzie soft voice comes from behind him, wavering a little. ‘What’re you doing?’ 

‘Just looking, Suzie,’ replied Greg, turning to face her and smiling as gently and kindly as he could. 

‘Oh,’ she grinned back, ‘okay. It is pretty, isn’t it?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg replied, almost honestly, ‘It is.’ 

‘It’s so different from home,’ she begins to babble. ‘Everyone here is so colourful and bright and it’s a bit annoying sometimes but that’s okay because its their lives and their choices, you know?’ 

‘Yeah?’ 

‘Definitely. And I reckon if I could wear a wig like Calypso’s, I’d be happy too.’ 

‘You think Calypso is happy?’ asked Greg, sharply. 

‘Well, why wouldn’t she be? She lives here, doesn’t she?’ 

Greg falls silent. He isn’t entirely sure what he’s meant to say to that, so he just stays quiet. He certainly doesn’t say what he thinks of the matter. He doesn’t tell her that he thinks Calypso is sad, and annoyed, at having such a disappointing District. One that never wins, never produced pretty Victors for her to fawn over. 

‘What do you miss most about home?’ asked Suzie, after a moment. 

‘Oh, that’s a tricky question,’ said Greg, humouring her. 

‘Really?’ Suzie gasped. ‘It’s super easy for me. I miss my Mum the most.’ 

‘Then, I suppose I would have to say that I miss John the most.’ 

‘Oh, that’s the little boy who’s sometimes with you, right?’ asked Suzie. ‘He’s the one who came up on stage after you volunteered for that other little boy.’

‘Yes,’ replied Greg. 

‘That was very brave of him, to come to you. My Mum didn’t.’ She said this will a lot of sadness, enough so Greg turns, and pats her on the shoulder. 

‘I know she misses you.’ 

‘No, you don’t,’ scoffed Suzie. ‘No one can know that.’ 

‘Well, I’m pretty sure I can say that,’ replied Greg. ‘Cause your Mum loves you.’ 

Suzie doesn’t say anything, just looking out over the Capitol again. 

‘It’s really pretty here,’ she said, suddenly. ‘I think my Mum would like it here.’ 

‘I think my John would like it here too. I wish you could have met him.’ 

‘I wish that too,’ replied Suzie. ‘I think I would have liked him.’ 

Again, there was silence. 

‘We’re gonna have to fight each other soon, aren’t we?’ she asked. 

Greg wasn’t sure how to answer. 

‘Yes,’ he replied, after a moment. ‘I think we are.’ 

‘I don’t really want to fight anyone.’ 

‘Neither do I.’ 

‘Can we work together?’

Her innocent question is so heart-wrenchingly sad. She reminds him of John so strongly right at that moment, expecting rejection. It forces Greg to his knees, to be at chest level with her. 

Grasping her small hands in his own, he looks up at her. ‘We’ll try, alright, kiddo? I’ll try.’ 

‘Promise?’ asked Suzie, uncertainly. 

‘I swear.’ 

They both looked back over the Capitol. 

‘Who was that other boy?’ asked Suzie. ‘The one that Dimmock swore at, and the one that Calypso had to take me away for?’ 

Should he tell her the truth? 

‘No-one we need to be worried about, alright Suzie?’ 

‘Okay.’ 


	5. Parade

Greg resisted the urge to scream as the stylist tugged and pulled at his hair, as if he were trying to rip it out. 

‘Almost there, Mr Lestrade,’ he said, his long, claw-like fingers tugging and pulling uncomfortably at Greg’s silver locks. ‘We just need to give you a trim.’ 

On what planet did a _trim_ involve long, sharp claws digging into his scalp? Greg refrained from commenting this, instead just gritting his teeth and allowing the man to continue what he had started. 

‘I am _very_ sorry,’ simpered the man, in his idiotic Capitol accent. It was a truly horrific thing, high pitched and grating. ‘You just have so much thick, matted hair!’ 

Greg can hear the disgust in the man’s tone. Not that he’s really one to talk. The stylist was wearing a simply enormous wig, adorned with flowers and the odd butterfly here and there that seemed to flutter in some unknown breeze. ‘I’m almost finished.’ 

With one final, brutal tug, Paxton seems to be finished. The chair under Greg hummed upright, allowing Greg to get his bearings once more after having to stare at the ceiling for what seemed like an eternity. He was greeted with his own reflection, and had to resist the urge to laugh again. 

His hair was entirely the same, simple and a little more artfully ruffled than usual, but the colour and texture hadn’t been changed at all. For that, he was almost thankful. 

Greg could remember a few years ago, when the stylist for District Ten had sent the Tributes down the Parade in nothing but some hemp sacks, shaved their heads and painted them with brown and black spots like a cow. 

That had been a particularly bad year. 

‘Thanks,’ Greg said, patting the back of his hair and failing to hide the relieved tone of his voice. 

‘It’s a shame,’ commented Paxton, ‘I would have much preferred to do something a little more complicated, something a little prettier perhaps. You hair is a delightful colour of silver!’ 

‘Oh?’ 

‘Yes,’ Paxton babbled, ‘It would have been simply marvellous, but no. Clara said she wanted something simpler.’ 

‘Who’s Clara?’ 

‘Your stylist, dah-ling,’ replied Paxton, brushing his hand flirtatiously against Greg’s arm. ‘Clara’s the _literal_ best.’ 

‘I’m… sure she is.’ 

‘She is, dah-ling. You’re in great hands. Narelle’s coming through to do your make up. I can’t wait, dah-ling, this is going to be _amazing!’_

Paxton floated out of the room, his high pitched, girlish giggles following him out. Greg chuckled, a little, before leaning forward and rubbing a hand over his clean-shaven face. 

His face hardly ever felt like that. Back in the District, he would take a razor to his face every other day, but he hadn’t felt this close-shaven and bare since he was ten. His face felt like a baby’s bottom. 

‘Oh, no, don’t do that!’ A woman, who must be Narelle, stepped through the door on the far side of the room, and tosses her hands up in dramatic horror upon seeing Greg wiping his hands on his chin. ‘You’ll leave my canvas oily!’ 

‘Sorry,’ Greg said, dropping his hands down in mock-surrender, ‘I didn’t mean to ruin anything.’ 

‘I know, dah-ling,’ she sighed, with the same intonation and odd accent that Paxton had spoken with, ‘You poor District kids have no idea about skin care, do you?’ 

‘No,’ Greg replied, gritting his teeth, ‘I suppose we don’t.’ 

‘No matter, dah-ling, I’ll have you fixed up in no time!’ 

‘Sure,’ said Greg, smiling tightly. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to be ‘fixed up’, but he didn’t suppose he had a choice. 

Narelle had come in dragging a large trolley behind her. Her long, claw-like nails dug into his cheeks as she turned his face this way and that, inspecting it carefully. ‘Oh, you could do with some foundation, and a little blush. Maybe some contour, bring out those lovely cheekbones. And your eyes, such a rich brown. Oh, if only, if only…’ 

‘What?’ 

‘You would look fantastic in some bright pink eyeshadow, dah-ling. Maybe even a bit of electric blue eyeliner.’ 

‘Oh… no thank you,’ Greg squeaked. 

‘Shame,’ said Narelle, continuing on as if Greg hadn’t even spoken. ‘If only Clara would let me. And, I suppose, pink and blue would _not_ work with your outfit.’ 

‘Clara already has my outfit?’ 

‘Of course!’ simpered Narelle. ‘She’ll show you what we have planned in a moment, dah-ling.’ 

With that, Narelle turned sharply to her trolley full of odd products in plastic containers that Greg hadn’t ever seen before. 

She began to work on his face, using creams and powders and brushes, even putting a little colour on his lips. It felt like she must be changing the way he looked completely, but when she was finally finished and had allowed him to look in the mirror, he looked entirely the same. 

Bustling about, Narelle began to pack her things up, putting away all her brushes and bit and pieces, while Greg turned his face this way and that, trying to spot what had been changed. 

His lips had a little extra colour, as did his cheeks. His cheekbones perhaps looked a little different, and his eyes were darker around the edges, the eyeliner that she had been talking about blackening his lids. 

It had felt like much more than that, though, and Greg turned his face this way and that, trying to spot where it had been changed. Maybe he had missed it - maybe there was some great patch of Capitol white somewhere, maybe he had missed the bright pink somehow. 

But no, there was nothing really changed. Not as much as would have been assumed by the amount of heavy work that Narelle had done. 

‘Oh dah-ling, I know! It’s simply incredible!’ Narelle fluttered her hands around his face. ‘I’m a genius!’ 

‘Uh, yeah…’ Greg agreed, slightly scared as to her reaction if he replied with anything but. 

‘Alright, dah-ling, you’d best be going through to Clara now. She’s dying to meet you, I’m sure.’ 

‘Sure,’ said Greg, standing up and brushing off the residue from his pants. 

These two, Narelle and Paxton, they’re so empty-headed and vapid that its almost easy to forgive them for their assumptions. They have so many luxuries, just by virtue of where they were born. They had no comprehension of what life was like. 

Greg was disgusted by them, to be sure. They had no substance, just what was on the outside, but he could forgive them for it. 

It truly wasn’t their fault they were the way they were. The Capitol had robbed them of their insight, of their ability to look and see the bigger picture. It had intentionally blinkered them like horses. 

‘Right that way, dah-ling!’ Narelle gestured at a door on the far side of the room, that Greg hadn’t noticed before. He headed towards it, as Narelle blew him a kiss and a small wave. Greg acknowledged it with a wry smile, before slipping through the door into the room beyond. 

Through the door, there was a small sitting room, with a glass coffee table between two plush, velvet lounges. On the far side of the room, opposite where Greg was standing, was an enormous window looking out over the Capitol. 

From the looks of it, it was late afternoon, heading towards evening. The sky was pinking behind the tall spires of the Capitol, brilliant against the darkening blue of the sky. The sun lit the city in brilliant silvers and golds, reflecting off the spires and the people and even the ground in a beautiful study of colour. 

It made Greg think of what was happening back home. John would be tiring by now, would be winding down for the day maybe by preparing dinner. He might have even mucked the barn, with a little help from Sally. Unless, of course, John had curled up into a ball as he was wont to do when unhappy. 

Greg just hoped that John, ever the little soldier, would survive. That he would make it out. 

The entire scene gave him such a strong wave of homesickness that it nearly bowled him over. It was certainly enough to stop him in his tracks, make him pause and just stare, and resist the prickling behind his eyes. 

It was hard. So hard. But he did it. 

With the help of a quiet, but pointed, throat clearing from the single occupant of the room. 

On the left-most lounge, there was a young woman with long, brown hair falling in curls down her back. She was dressed far more sensibly than most women in the Capitol, the only major change to her appearance being the dark red lipstick that coated her large lips. Her clothes weren’t outrageous, by any sense of the word. In fact, if anything, they were simple. 

Her dress was a deep, forest green. It was almost reminiscent of the hardy dress that Sally had occasion to wear sometimes. Clearly, it was made of a more silky, higher grade fabric than what they had at hand back in the District, but it wasn’t so far off to be believable. 

It was certainly a far cry from Narelle, whose atrociously long, bright pink nails matched her lurid pink bodysuit and electric pink hair. 

She looked up at him with a smile, and a gesture towards the lounge opposing her own. ‘Please, Mr Lestrade, have a seat.’ 

Greg was immediately put at ease by the woman, her mild appearance and friendly green eyes enough to set him a little off the edge. He grinned, and took a seat opposite her. 

‘So, Mr Lestrade, how has your day been?’ she asked him, gently. 

‘On balance,’ he replied, ‘I reckon I’ve had better days.’ 

She surprised him by chuckling, and smiling at his comment. ‘Well, I can’t say I blame you.’

Greg smiled. ‘Please, call me Greg. It’s nice to meet you; Clara, I assume?’ 

‘You’d assume right,’ she replied. ‘Are you hungry?’ 

Greg wasn’t, but he immediately nodded, knowing he should eat all he can while he could. She smiled, again, and waved a hand at the nearest servant, who Greg had noticed slip into the room behind him. ‘Will, could you please fetch us some drinks, and maybe a light snack?’ 

The servant nodded, and slipped out again. 

‘So, Greg, I had something in mind for you to wear,’ she said. ‘I thought of it immediately when you volunteered for that little boy.’ 

‘Oh?’ asked Greg, cocking an eyebrow. 

‘Yes,’ she replied, sagely. ‘What you did was brave. Inspirational, even. And the other little boy, I assume he was your brother?’ 

‘My son,’ Greg corrected. ‘Adopted.’ 

‘Ah, right,’ she murmured, ‘What is his name?’ 

Greg smiled. ‘John.’ 

‘And how did he come to your care?’ 

‘His parents were killed, for speaking out against a high tax in my District.’ 

There was silence.

‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ 

‘Yeah,’ shrugged Greg, ‘But that’s life for you.’ 

‘Mmm,’ hummed Clara. ‘Well, I do think that you’re going to like what I’ve decided to put you in, then.’ 

‘Will I?’ joked Greg, raising a brow.

‘I think you will.’ 

There was something about her. Greg peered at her, focusing. She was so far cry from the other stylists he had seen, the ones with body modifications and brightly coloured hair and mountainous wigs that were interviewed on the telly. 

‘Is this your first time as a stylist?’ asked Greg. 

‘Yes,’ replied Clara, smiling gently. 

‘And you got District Ten,’ Greg returned the smile, wryly. If anything, hers got wider. 

‘I asked for District Ten.’ 

‘Why?’ 

Their conversation was paused when Will re-entered the room, bearing a tray with the fruit juice that Greg had had that morning, and some meat, along with some bread rolls to make sandwiches. 

‘That looks great, thanks, Will,’ said Clara, nodding her thanks. Will nodded back, and then stepped away, into a corner of the room. ‘Please, Greg, help yourself.’ 

‘Thanks,’ Greg said, reaching for a bread roll and some of the meat. ‘So, what was it you were saying about my costume?’ 

‘Ah, yes,’ Clara nodded, taking a sip of one of the glasses of juice. ‘As you probably know, the costumes have to be inspired by the District which the Tribute hails from. For us, that was District Ten. Farming and Livestock.’ 

‘Yes,’ cringed Greg. ‘I know. I’m pretty sure that doesn’t help, does it?’ 

‘No,’ said Clara, wryly. ‘It doesn’t, really. Farmer? Animal?’ 

‘Oh please, no,’ Greg begged, sarcastically, ‘I could just walk out there with my pitchfork, and my straw hat!’ 

‘Are you a farmer?’ 

‘Yes. I was,’ replied Greg. 

Clara smiled. ‘I wouldn’t be so quick to write yourself off, Greg. I think you’re a fighter.’ 

‘I’d like to think that too,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know. That Tribute from District One, Mycroft Holmes? I don’t think I have much of a chance against him.’ 

‘Well, you can think what you like,’ Clara said, ‘but my money is on you. If I were a betting woman.’ 

Greg just smiled, and looked down at his hands. ‘I dunno. My costume?’ 

‘Ah, right,’ laughed Clara, accepting the subject change. ‘Sorry. I think I tend to go off on a bit of a tangent.’ 

‘That’s fine,’ Greg grinned, easily. ‘Ideas?’ 

‘Well, I was doing some research, and I came across something interesting about your District. Is it true, that some years ago, the Capitol printed and gave a book to the people of the Districts? A book about knights and dragons and princesses?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg nodded, ‘It was always my favourite when I was growing up. My Dad used to read it to me every night before I would go to sleep. I read it to John, too. One story in particular, actually, the one about the Silver Knight, I read to him the night before the Reaping.’ 

Greg smiled, sadly, at the memory. Clara grinned. 

‘What a coincidence. I have something special for you, planned. It’s a little out-of-the-box. Not really what is usually done, but when I was researching, I found that book actually had a lot of meaning in your District. That out of all the Districts, it was the one it was most important in.’ 

‘Yeah, I suppose,’ Greg shrugged. ‘Everyone I know has a copy.’ 

‘Well, I thought it would be nice if we could dress you up as the Silver Knight from the book.’ 

***

A few hours later, Greg finds himself in a dark, bare room the size of a barn. It has two enormous, black gates on the other side, beyond which the screams of the Capitol citizens who have come out on Tribute Parade to stare at the children marching to their deaths pass by. 

The Opening Ceremony is already in full swing, the players are ready and waiting. 

Next to the gate, two black horses hooked up to the iron monstrosity of a chariot stand snorting and thumping their hooves. Blinkers and harnesses weave around their heads, trapping them in. 

Greg himself is dressed in what could quite possibly be the most dangerous thing he has ever worn. It could quite possibly end up killing him. 

‘Oh, calm down,’ Clara hissed at him, her eyes light. ‘It’s just a little fake fire. It’s not actually going to hurt you.’ 

‘Easy for you to say,’ Greg shot back, ‘You’re not the one who’s body it’s going to be consuming.’ 

‘Shut up,’ replied Clara, teasingly. ‘You’ll survive. Venus and I tested it _rigorously._ ’ 

‘Oh, that’s so much better,’ Greg bit back, ‘So comforting. I’ve always wanted to bathe in fire.’ 

‘You’ll be fine,’ said Venus, softly. ‘Trust us. Or, if you can’t trust her, at least trust me.’ 

‘Hey!’ yelped Clara, indignantly slapping the other stylist on the arm. 

Next to Greg, Suzie is faintly buzzing with excitement. 

‘I get to be a _princess_!’ she wonders, in amazement. ‘A real princess!’ 

‘Calm down, Suzie,’ Greg told her, but didn’t really put any heart into it. 

Better to let her have her fun now rather than pop her bubble. 

‘And _you_ get to be a knight! Just like in the storybook that my Dad used to read me.’ 

‘Exactly like that.’ 

The call comes. ‘Alright, District Ten, please mount the chariot.’ 

Greg helps Suzie up, into the chariot. They’ve put a small stool inside, for her to stand on, just so that she is almost the same height as Greg. Then, he himself stepped up into the chariot, taking hold of the rails on the edge. 

Clara steps up beside him. 

‘I’ll set you both ablaze when you’re about halfway down,’ she told him, ‘That’ll give it maximum impact.’ 

‘Are you one hundred percent certain this is gonna work?’ asked Greg, one last time. Clara just fixed him with a playful glare. 

‘It’ll be fine.’ 

‘Alright.’ 

Greg shifted awkwardly under the weight of the costume. It was a heavy thing, even though it didn’t look it. The ragged, almost worn, cliched overalls and plaid shirt that he wore masking the bulk of the costume underneath. The hat on his head, straw, sagged down into his eyes, and he pushed it up out of the way. 

Beside him, Suzie was also shifting awkwardly; her long, spartan dress covering most of her skin, so no-one could see the true costume hidden underneath. 

‘In three,’ said the attendant. ‘Three. 

‘Two. 

‘One.’ 

With that, the gates swung open, letting the brilliant light of Tribute Parade flood their faces. It cast Greg’s cheeks and eyes into light, and as his eyes adjusted, the chariot jolted forward. 

The horses began to clip rapidly down the concrete walk, as the sounds of the Capitol washed over Greg in their entirety. Beside him, Suzie whimpered, and clutched onto his hand suddenly. 

As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the shape of the Tribute Tower at the far side of the walk. On either side of the wide, open Parade, the colourful Capitol citizens were hollering, and waving at them. Great screens hung down around the Parade, over the grandstands, showing a live feed of the proceedings. 

Greg saw that they were currently showing the District One chariot. 

The Tributes from the Career District looked magnificent. Particularly Mycroft Holmes, who wore a long, billowing cape that blew out behind him, emphasising his tall, lean figure. 

His eyes were the shifting, slate grey that Greg had become familiar with over countless re-watches of the Reaping. They had been brought out by some artful make-up, subdued and controlled, and on his brow sat a crown, of a bright, brilliant gold. It was a large thing, all angles and reflections and beautiful stones set into the gold inlay. Greg didn’t think he’d seen anything like it before in his life. 

It was nestled in locks of the most fiery ginger, artfully styled over one arched, severe eyebrow. 

The cape was a rich, dark purple in colour, complimenting the purple sash that ran diagonally along the other teen’s lean form. He wore a dark, navy blue tunic that came down to the tops of his thighs, that was buttoned up with shining, golden buttons, each with their own shimmering stone. 

Mycroft’s lips were pursed shut, tight and unyielding. It gave his face an expression almost of mild disdain, as if everything and everyone here was below him. 

Beside him, Irene Adler was dressed like his Queen, in the same colour palette and scheme. Her dress was lovely and corseted, her hair coiffed around her head. 

Greg takes a deep breath, and looks away, just as the loud voice of Caesar Flickerman comes over the loudspeakers. 

_‘And here we have it folks! The first Tributes of this year’s opening ceremony, making their way down the Parade. Up first, we have District One. Incredible, don’t you think, Claudius?’_

_‘I do agree, Caesar, simply incredible!’_

_‘This is District One, Mycroft Holmes and Irene Adler! You know, Claudius, I might be wrong, but I’m pretty certain that Mycroft Holmes’ mother was the late, great Violet Holmes, the Victor of the 43rd Hunger Games, going on to later run a factory producing the finest jewellery for the Capitol!’_

_‘Yes, I believe you are right!’_

_‘And doesn’t her son look simply stunning here?’_

_‘Certainly, Caesar, one of the most handsome Tributes I’ve ever seen.’_

_‘Perhaps he will win the 74th Hunger Games, to honour his mother’s memory.’_

Greg looks up, sharply, at the projectors, to see if he can spot a change in Mycroft’s expression, but there is nothing. No flicker of change, nothing but the continuation of the icy, aloof stare. 

‘Greg,’ whispered Suzie tugging on his hand, ‘I’m nervous.’ 

‘You’re alright, Suzie,’ Greg whispered back, squeezing her hand tightly. ‘You just have to be brave. For your Mum. She’s watching you, right now.’ 

‘Really?’ 

‘Definitely.’ 

Suddenly, Greg realises that they must be getting close to the middle of the Parade. Caesar and Claudius’s inane commentary dulls to a drone. He knows that they’ve glossed over the other Tributes, particularly over them. He can’t blame them, they do look rather plain. 

He realised that they must be focusing on District Twelve. The poor, starving children from that District appeared to be completely in the nude, covered in some sort of dirt. Coal dust, Greg realised. 

That seemed especially cruel, but was certainly drawing a reaction from the crowds. Unfortunately for the two, it seemed. 

Greg knew they were there. He could feel the tickling sensation beginning, right over his chest, familiar from where he had felt the fire before the parade. 

Next to him, Suzie gripped his hand, tightly. And together, they began to burn. 

_‘Caesar! Caesar, look there! Look at the District Ten tributes!’_

_‘Oh, oh my goodness! What is happening there?’_

The dull roar of the observers now began to pick up, as the citizens began to scream, almost hysterically. Greg’s entire body was bathed in the warm, tickling sensation, and he glanced upwards. All the cameras were focused on them, the screens showing images of his face and body in the chariot, next to Suzie. They were both burning, the fire eating up the simple, rough clothing that was concealing what lay beneath. 

Slowly, their true costumes were being revealed, piece by piece. 

Greg’s armour shone in the bright floodlights of the Parade, reflecting the light brilliantly, making him shine like the sun. The screens didn’t do the costume justice; the delicate, almost intricate metalwork laying heavy over his body. The large, shining steel plates hugged his chest and form, piecing over his chest and down his belly towards his navel, in a segmented fashion. The delicate chain of the suit wound over his shoulders, connecting the chest plate to the gauntlets and soft, black, leather gloves he wore. 

As the suit was revealed from the fire, Greg let an enormous grin light up his face, looking directly down the Parade as the other Tributes darted their heads back to look at him in incredulity. Next to him, Suzie was also grinning hugely, in her gorgeous gown with beautiful, silver and gold detailing. The wide, billowing skirt sloughed flame like a dog shakes off water, and the sparkling details glimmering in the floodlights. 

‘Ready?’ asked Greg, remembering what Clara had requested of him. 

‘Yep,’ replied Suzie, happily. 

With a final squeeze, Greg raised his hands over his head, revealing the long, detailed silver sword that had remained hidden up until now. The movement made John’s pendant, hanging on a new chain given to him by Clara, bounce on the breastplate of the suit of armour. He raised Suzie’s and his conjoined hands, and looked down at her to see that she had done the same. 

Around them, the Capitol was going wild. 

_‘Would you take a look at that Caesar!’_ Claudius exclaimed, _‘Absolutely incredible. Marvellous, that is!’_

_‘Indeed, Claudius! It says here that the outfits were inspired by a story in District Ten, the story of the Silver Knight who slayed the dragon for the Princess.’_

_‘Incredible,’_ breathed Claudius, _‘Truly fantastic!’_

Greg smiled, really smiled, hoping that his smile could reach all the way through the camera and out to District Ten, where he knew John would be watching with wide eyes and bated breath. 

He waved his sword in the air, garnering ecstatic screams from the audience. Hopefully, this would be enough to earn them at least a few sponsors. In previous years, those with the most beautiful, most inspired costumes had drawn a few extra sponsors. It wasn’t much, but it was something. 

_‘And that presentation! Something we have never seen before!’_

_‘Their stylists were Clara Freed and Venus Springworth. Two stylists clearly worth their weight in gold, am I right?’_

_‘Yes, I think you are, Caesar.’_

It was a heady feeling, knowing that you had captured the attention of the entire Capitol. Everyone’s eyes were on them, on _him_ , and maybe, just maybe, it might be enough to survive Mycroft Holmes’ wrath. 

The chariots continued to progress down the Parade, towards where the great balcony reared high above them, over the enormous, round area where the chariots came to a halt. 

Once they were all lined up, Greg dropped his hand back down by his sides, the sword clattering uselessly against the edge of the chariot. It was dull, anyway, and while it looked pretty, it was no more useful than a hammer, a blunt object. 

Above them, President Magnussen had approached the podium. 

President Magnussen was a man with a slight build, and grey, thinning hair, uncut stubble that masked a great deal of his face. His eyes were small, and beady, peering out over them like a hawk over prey. He held out gloved hands, commanding silence amongst the citizens. 

It took a while, but eventually, the roar of the Capitol died down. The Tributes were, of course, completely silent. 

_‘Welcome, welcome. Good evening, everyone,’_ says the President, his mouth shockingly red against the white of the rest of his face. 

_‘Welcome, to the 74th annual Hunger Games!’_

On those words, a dull roar starts amongst the crowd. Greg just stays silent, looking around at the other Tributes, and up at President Magnussen. The man himself is projected up on the screen behind him, but every so often, they cut around to the Tributes. 

Greg’s armour is harder and harder to ignore, reflecting the light in such a way that it draws the attention of the crowds as the night goes on. The cameras are drawn to both Tributes, sparkling in the floodlights that fill the Parade with brilliance. The cameras give them a fair amount of the screen time, most of it, in fact. The only other pair that perhaps attracts as much attention is the pair of Irene Adler and Mycroft Holmes. Both are staring stonily up at the President. 

Greg squeezes Suzie’s hand. 

‘Your Mum is so proud of you right now, I reckon.’ 

‘You really think so?’ Suzie whispered back. 

‘I really, really do,’ replied Greg. ‘You’re a proper princess in that dress that Venus gave you.’ 

‘And you’re a proper knight. You’re so shiny!’ 

Greg grins, and looks back up at the President. 

_‘Tributes, we salute your courage, and your sacrifice.’_

Sacrifice. Because this is what this is. It is a long, drawn-out sacrifice, and Greg is the bloody lamb on the alter. 

_‘And we wish you, happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour.’_

With that, the chariots jolt forwards again. Suzie almost lost her balance, and clung quickly to Greg to ensure she stood upright. Greg placed a hand in the small of her back, and rubbed. 

‘You alright?’ 

‘Yeah,’ replied Suzie, a little breathlessly. ‘Sorry, Greg.’ 

‘No problem,’ Greg replied, smiling and waving his sword at the crowds once more. ‘Almost there.’ 

The chariots did one final loop below the President, before turning, and making their way back down the Parade, towards the Tribute Tower. The crowds once more are going wild, the hosts making their inane commentary over the top. 

All Greg can think about is John. How John might be watching at this very moment, how he might be sitting on the couch and watching the telly, and that prompts Greg to raise his hand from Suzie’s back, smile softly, and press that hand to the pendant on his chest. 

He pressed his hand there, and looked up into the nearest camera, smiling softly, and as sweetly as he possibly can. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the nearest screen is projecting this out over the crowd. The effect is astonishing; the crowds whooping, cheering, and sighing. 

And all that matters is that John might have gotten the message. Might have understood that little thing between Greg and him, and kept it safe in his heart. The next few weeks were going to be hard on him. Really hard. 

This was all Greg could do for his little soldier. 

It would have to be enough. 

Dropping his hand again, Greg looked away, chancing a look up once more at one of the screens a little further down the Parade. 

This screen is showing Moriarty. 

The Career from District Two is grinning widely, his smile insane. His eyes are blackly humorous, and it feels almost like he is looking directly at Greg. Which is ridiculous, Greg knows. But he can’t help the sensation. 

Moriarty is decked out in a slim-fitting suit, dark in colour, but with gold detailing thematic of District Two’s booming gold mines. It draws attention both to him, and to Janine at his side. 

Greg has to look away, before he is sick. 

The chariots pull up, underneath the Tribute Tower, all in one great group now. They are assisted to dismount by some faceless servants, and immediately are swamped by their stylists and other prep teams, including both Paxton and Narelle. 

Narelle is gasping, almost in orgasmic ecstasy. ‘Oh, oh, dah-lings! That was simply marvellous! Wonderful!’ 

‘Thank you,’ said Greg, giving a slight bow and a cheeky grin. ‘I’m glad you liked it.’ 

‘We did,’ Paxton simpered, ‘We all did! Oh, the eyes of the entire Capitol must be on us right now!’ 

Next to him Suzie was grinning and lapping up the praise, as Dimmock, Calypso, Clara and Venus approached. Venus and Calypso both knelt next to Suzie, and Dimmock clapped Greg on the back. 

‘That was well done, Lestrade,’ Dimmock said, quietly. ‘Very well done. This means that everyone is watching you now. Watching us, for your next move. It’s gonna be a great bargaining chip in the future.’ 

Greg didn’t say anything. 

‘… and there was two others, weren’t there,’ Narelle was saying, to Paxton. ‘Those two from District One? Mycroft Holmes and Irene Adler, I think. They were both stunning, as well.’ 

‘Oh, that’s right!’ exclaimed Paxton, ‘Really, we must go have a closer look.’ 

The two fluttered off, taking with them a few of the other Capitol prep people. 

Greg was thankful for the space, as Dimmock stared at him. Clara stepped forwards. 

‘We did good, hey Greg?’ said Clara, grinning up at him easily. 

‘We did. Congratulations, you managed not to kill me prematurely,’ Greg droned. 

‘Hilarious,’ she shot back, slapping him on the armoured forearm, and clearly regretting the decision. 

Greg let out a chuckle of laughter at her expression, as the stylist clutched at her hand. ‘Ow… oh, ow…’ 

‘Hey, your fault,’ he sniped. ‘Taste of your own medicine, really.’ 

‘We are all that anyone is going to be talking about!’ Calypso declared, with quite some satisfaction at that prospect. 

‘I know!’ Suzie agrees with her, ‘Everyone was looking at us. Everyone was looking at _Greg_!’ She tugs on his hand. ‘Don’t you think, Greg? All the other Tributes were watching you. Even the boy from District One looked back at you when we first went on fire!’ 

‘Really?’ Greg asked her, humouring her, but at the same time feeling a sinking sensation in the pit of his belly. 

He had hoped that he might be able to just sink below Mycroft Holmes’ notice. Everything he had heard, which was even more now that he had come to the Capitol, just whispers from Dimmock, Calypso and the prep team had been enough. Enough to tell him he didn’t want this particular man’s attention. 

But it seemed, from Suzie’s comment, he had it. Even if it was just a brief glimpse. 

Maybe it was just that. Maybe it was just a brief glimpse, a tiny little bit of identification that meant nothing in the long run. Nothing more than the acknowledgement of his existence. 

His hopes of that were dashed by the prickling sense on the back of his neck. He had always had a knack for knowing when someone was watching him, and he had a sudden wave of it, right then. 

It forced him to glance over his shoulder, tuning the others out. 

He immediately locked eyes with Mycroft Holmes. 

Locking eyes with Mycroft was nothing like it had been through the barrier of the screen. This time, his eyes were entirely on Greg, and Greg was explicitly aware that he was the centre of this Career’s attention, the focus of that laser sharp, slate grey gaze. 

Mycroft Holmes’ eyes were like nothing Greg had ever seen before. They were dark, and had hidden depths within them that almost lured Greg in. They hypnotised him, made him want to meander closer, and closer, to take a good look. 

Mycroft cocked his head to the side, boring a hole right through Greg. 

Then, the most terrifying thing. He raised a single, neatly shaped eyebrow, and the corner of those rose lips turned up, in a smirk that held so much within it that Greg couldn’t even begin to unravel. It was a challenge, a competition. A call to arms. 

Greg did not intend to disappoint. 

Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, turning him back to face Dimmock. 

‘Come on,’ he ushered Greg, ‘Let’s go, take this somewhere more private.’ 

The eye contact was lost, but Greg knew that Mycroft was watching him, those eyes tickling the back of his neck, beckoning him to turn back and face them. 

Dimmock practically dragged Greg away, tugging him towards the elevators that would take them back to their rooms. He pushed Greg inside, along with Suzie and Calypso, then followed behind them, crossing his arms like an overzealous Peacekeeper. Calypso reached out, pushing the button to close the doors and take them upwards. 

Before the doors slid shut, Greg caught just a glimpse of dark ginger hair and grey eyes, turning the corner towards the elevators. 

***

As soon as they reached their floor, Dimmock and Calypso ushered them out. Dimmock took ahold of Greg’s shoulders, letting Calypso and Suzie go ahead. 

‘Lestrade,’ Dimmock barked, ‘What was that?’ 

Greg just shrugged. 

Dimmock looked at him. 

‘I don’t know,’ Greg protested. ‘He looked at me. He knows who I am, Dimmock, this isn’t good.’

‘It isn’t,’ Dimmock agreed. ‘He does know who you are, he’s going to be after you, now. That, what you just did, down there in the Parade, that stood out. That was incredible, and eye-catching, and it was something that drew sponsors in. It is going to make you look very attractive for sponsors. 

‘Mycroft Holmes is a tactician. Above all else. Everything I know about him points to that. He’s going to want to now take you out as soon as he can. He knows that there are unlimited needs, in that Arena, but only a limited few sponsors who are rich enough to provide. 

‘He has to entice them in, and eliminate all competition. And right now, in terms of eye-catching, you are his strongest competitor. Greg, for him, the Games have already started. This, this is all part of it. Making himself look better for sponsors.’ 

‘I know,’ spat Greg. ‘I do. That’s why we did this, isn’t it?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Dimmock. ‘It is. And hopefully, it’s gonna pay off in that arena.’ 


	6. Liar

‘When you get down there, you listen to what the instructors have to say, alright?’ Dimmock said, over the breakfast spread out between them. 

‘Alright,’ replied Greg, grinning easily enough. Next to him, Suzie nodded. 

‘What do we do about the other Tributes?’ she asked, ‘Can we make friends with them?’ 

‘You can try,’ said Dimmock, wryly. Suzie grinned, happily.

‘I’m gonna try and make friends with as many as I can,’ she said, decisively, ‘And maybe then they won’t try to catch me as quickly.’ 

‘What’s that?’ asked Greg.

‘Well, if I’m friends with them, then they’ll go after the other people first, not me.’ 

Greg looked up at Dimmock, his eyes wide. Dimmock himself was looking at the younger girl in surprise. 

‘Suzie,’ he said, softly, ‘what do you think the Hunger Games is about?’ 

‘Well,’ said Suzie, her hand on her chin, thoughtfully. ‘My Mum always said it was like a big game of tag. And if you got it, you were out, and the Capitol took you away. She never told me where.’ 

‘Didn’t your Mum let you see what happened to the Tributes after they were caught?’ 

‘No,’ replied Suzie, ‘The telly was always turned off after that.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Greg, in a strangled voice. 

‘Why?’ asked Suzie, ‘Does something special happen?’ 

‘Uh…’ 

Greg was lost for words. Everything he knew about Suzie and her mother was suddenly being revised in his head. 

He had never tried to hide the reality of the Games from John. He knew that John would find out one way or another; better he know the truth than have the wool pulled over his eyes. After all, John was explicitly familiar with death. 

But this tiny girl, this perfectly innocent twelve-year-old child had no idea. She was so young, so innocent, so pure. And she was going to get slaughtered. 

‘Suzie,’ Greg began, quickly, ‘What did your Mum do back in District Ten?’ 

‘She was a doctor,’ replied Suzie, smiling happily and scooping a little more toast slathered with honey into her mouth, ‘She helped cure people who were sick.’ 

‘Oh.’ 

That was why. Doctors in District Ten were highly regarded, rich members of society. Suzie was also an only child, and her mother was clearly also overprotective of her. 

Greg looked down at his hands, sadly. 

‘Well,’ said Dimmock, clapping his hands together to break the silence that had fallen over the breakfast table. ‘Do your best down there, Suzie, and make however many friends you want to. Greg, you just… watch Suzie, alright?’ 

Greg nodded, understanding the importance of that task. Monumental in and of itself. 

‘I’m done,’ Suzie announced, with a final flick of the handkerchief over her face. Greg smiled down at her. 

‘Excellent, young lady,’ Calypso fluttered, standing from the table as well and gesturing to Suzie. ‘Why don’t you get ready for the day?’ 

Suzie nodded in response, following Calypso out the door. 

‘Wow,’ was Greg’s only comment, as the two exited the room. Dimmock was completely silent on the other side of the table. 

There was dead silence.

‘I don’t think… in all my years…’ he managed. 

‘I knew she hadn’t really understood the full implication of what was happening to her,’ said Greg, ‘but I didn’t realise she had no idea whatsoever. I thought she had at least some idea that she might not be coming back.’ 

‘Mmm,’ hummed Dimmock. 

Greg looked over at him. 

‘What are we going to do?’ 

Dimmock frowned. ‘I’ll tell you what you are going to do, Greg. You are going to make her last few days the best damn days she has ever had. You are going to do your best to make sure she is safe and healthy and happy for as long as you can.’ 

‘ _What?!’_ exclaimed Greg, ‘What do you mean? You’re not going to tell her?’ 

‘No, of course not,’ blurted Dimmock. ‘No, _we_ are not going to _tell her!_ It will only make her panic, and make her death more painful than it has to be. 

‘No. You are going to keep silent, and you are going to help her and make her happy and do whatever else you damn well can to make sure that she goes out with good memories because no-one else is here to do that for her.’ 

‘I can’t agree with you, Dimmock,’ Greg said, standing, and slamming his hand down on the table-top to punctuate what he was saying. ‘I can’t. I can’t do that. You’re lying to her. You’re asking _me_ to lie to her! It’s better she knows now, so that she can understand what it is she’s facing. So she can prepare right.’ 

‘She has no chance of winning!’ 

‘She has an even smaller chance if she doesn’t know!’ 

‘No, she has basically the same chance either way! Mycroft Holmes and his pack of Careers are going to tear that little girl apart. And it is going to hurt her; you know that. If she doesn’t know that it’s coming, she can enjoy her last few days.’ 

Greg laughed, sarcastically. ‘Enjoy her last few days?! Oh, that’s great. Just great, Dimmock.’

‘No, Lestrade, listen to me. You’re not listening. You have to understand,’ Dimmock tried, ‘She’s happy right now. All the other Tributes, they know what’s going to happen, but she _doesn’t._ She doesn’t and that is so precious! She can enjoy her last few days, and she doesn’t have to spend them suffering and stressing about her imminent death! No little girl should have to go through that.’ 

‘You’re lying to her,’ Greg said, but collapsed back into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘That’s what you’re doing. Don’t sugarcoat it. You’re lying to her face. You’re asking me to lie to her.’ 

‘It is kinder. You know that.’ 

He did. Greg knew that it probably was kinder. Dimmock was probably right. Better she have her fun now, better she eat all the rich food and wear beautiful things and allow herself to enjoy them instead of the living hell he was going through. 

He knew it was an execution sentence, and he couldn’t sleep because of it. Why do that to a helpless, little girl? 

Dimmock knew he had won Greg over. 

‘It’s better this way, Lestrade. You know it.’ 

Greg got up from the table, shoving his chair in with a scrape of wood, and a slam of hard objects against each other. 

‘You disgust me,’ he hissed, exiting the room. 

***

The training centre was an enormous, underground, concrete complex beneath the Tribute Tower. The floor was covered n soft, spongy matting, and it was decorated with an array of stations; each specialising in a specific area of combat or survival. There was even a problem-solving station. 

Greg and Suzie both took up a vantage point a little ways from the centre of the room, where a raised platform for the speaker was set up. It was right to the left of the door, so the rest of the Tributes had to pass by them to get into the Training Centre proper. Helping Suzie up onto a raised block to sit, Greg leant back against the block and crossed his arms over his chest. 

The other Tributes began to trickle in, and Greg finally got a good look at everyone. 

The Tributes from Districts Eleven and Twelve were already present, huddled in a corner like shrinking violets. They were, however, looking far better for wear than they had at the Reaping. Both the boys and the girls seemed to have showered, and were wearing clean, hole-free clothing. Their faces were cleared of any dirt or debris, and their cheeks seemed a little rounder than they had been. 

‘They look nice,’ piped Suzie, from beside him. ‘Maybe we can go say hi?’ 

‘Maybe,’ replied Greg, shortly. 

‘Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,’ Suzie teased. Unable to resist, Greg grinned at the ribbing, nudging her in return, and forcing a small giggle out of the platinum blonde. 

‘Oi,’ he hissed at her, ‘You’re one to talk.’ 

Suzie looked back in mock outrage, and opened her mouth to reply, before they were interrupted. 

The Career pack piled through the sliding doors, laughing amongst themselves and nudging back and forth. The two women, Irene and Janine, were giggling to one another, their curled, black hair and similar tall, slim frames making them look almost like they were related. 

Just in front of them, Moriarty was looking at Mycroft, his eyes bright and penetrating. He wore a wide, toothy smile, almost like a shark staring at a particularly juicy piece of meat. 

Mycroft himself, dressed in the standard-issue Tribute shirt and soft, working pants, was striding confidently beside Moriarty. His eyes were practical, narrowed, and were regarding Moriarty in turn with a little distaste. His lip was slightly curled, irritation clear on the Career’s face. 

His hair was slicked back from his face; the ginger colour of it dulled. 

Shame, Greg thought, before he could stop himself. 

The next thing to happen, of course, was that the Career pack passed by them. 

Almost as soon as Greg caught sight of the four lean, healthy Tributes, his eyes had flicked to Mycroft. It was but a moment until Mycroft’s grey eyes flicked over to his, and stayed there. 

Mycroft was staring at him. 

Greg was immediately self-conscious, looking away and uncrossing his arms, awkwardly shuffling a little under that laser focus, before defiantly returning his gaze to the other teen’s. It was a challenge, of sorts, a reply to the challenge that Mycroft had posed him last night, in a single quirk of an eyebrow. 

Mycroft was regarding him carefully, his eyes passing over Greg’s form analytically, and not leaving him as the Career pack passed them by. They were but a hair’s breadth away for just a moment, and Mycroft himself passed within less than a meter of Greg. Less than half a meter. 

Greg drew in a breath, and held it, the air filled with a spicy scent of _something_ unnameable. Unconsciously, Greg leaned forwards a little, taking in a little more of that scent. Before he came to his senses, of course, and leaned back, away from that enticing smell. 

It felt like he was in a bit of a daze. Mycroft’s eyes flashed with humour, before returning to focus on the rest of the Training Centre. 

The Career Pack moved further away from Greg and Suzie, towards the right wall of the Training Centre. Mycroft leant casually up against the wall, almost in a mockery of Greg’s own position, and folded his own arms across his not-inconsiderable chest. 

‘Greg?’ Suzie’s voice forced Greg to tear his eyes away from Mycroft Holmes, and look over at the platinum blonde. 

A little longer, he feared, and he might just have gone over there, offered himself up to Mycroft and let the ginger strangle him like a python. 

‘Yes?’ 

‘That’s them, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘The Careers.’

‘Yeah,’ replied Greg. 

‘Are you trying to make friends with them?’

What? ‘What?’ 

‘Well, you and that other boy were looking at each other.’ 

‘That’s called sizing up your competition,’ Greg shot back, nudging Suzie with his shoulder. 

‘Oh,’ Suzie nodded, thoughtfully. 

Greg grinned, and returned to watching the other Tributes meander in through the door. The District Four, Five and Six Tributes were the next through the door, all looking a little more hale and hearty than they had at the Reaping. It was astonishing, really, what a few days of good food and rest could do for the disadvantaged. 

‘What about him?’ Suzie asked, pointing over Greg’s shoulder at the boy and girl who had just come through, from District Seven. They were both young - far too young in Greg’s opinion. The boy came up to about Greg’s shoulders in height, and he had hair in shades of warm brown. His skin was dark, clearly from time in the sun. His arms were not inconsiderable in size, and his chest looked like he had spent quite a bit of time lifting large loads. 

The girl, on the other hand, was small, and quite reedy. She was almost unnaturally skinny, as if she was made of just skin stretched tight over bones like some sort of grotesque drum. 

She looked like she was already starving, before the Games had even begun. 

‘I don’t know, Suzie,’ Greg whispered back. ‘The girl, she looks a bit like a strong breeze would blow her over. We have to pick strong friends, remember?’ 

‘They just look nice,’ said Suzie, pouting. ‘People look nice, sometimes. It doesn’t really matter whether someone’s strong or not, does it?’ 

‘Here, it does,’ he replied, darkly. 

‘Alright, Tributes, listen up!’ A tall young woman with a practical buzz cut stood on the platform. Her voice interrupted his and Suzie’s quiet conversation. ‘All these stations are yours to peruse during the day. 

‘Now, I know you all want to go for the weapons; the swords and the hammers and the daggers. But listen closely. Survival skills can mean the difference between winning and losing. And what I’m about to say will also help you survive, long enough to win. 

‘Firstly, no fighting with the other Tributes. You’ll have plenty of time for that in the Arena. There are four compulsory exercises. The rest will be individual training. 

‘My advice is; don’t ignore the survival skills. You all want to grab the swords, but most of you will be out due to natural causes. Ten percent from infection,’ 

Greg looks over at Suzie, sharply. She is paying attention, avidly, and Greg can’t understand how she hasn’t realised yet what’s going to happen. 

The woman just told them, after all. 

But Suzie still seems entirely oblivious. 

‘Twenty percent from dehydration. Exposure is just as bad as a knife. Now, good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour.’ 

With that practical speech, the woman moves down from the podium. 

Immediately, the Tributes spread out. The Training Centre quickly fills with the sound of colliding objects, and the chatter and grunts of the other Tributes. Next to him, Suzie is faintly buzzing with excitement. 

‘Suzie?’ Greg questioned, raising an eyebrow at the platinum blonde twelve-year-old. ‘Are you alright?’ 

‘This is all so exciting, Greg,’ she replied, smiling. ‘I can’t wait to learn all this stuff. I think I understand it better now, too. It’s kinda like a fake survival thing, isn’t it? And if it looks like you’re in danger, you get out as well.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg replied, faintly. ‘So… what do you want to do first?’ 

‘Can we learn how to build a fire?’ 

‘Sure,’ Greg said, helping her down from the block. 

Suzie grabbed his hand, quickly, and began to drag him over to the station on survival skills. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Greg sneaks a look at the Careers. They’re still leaning up against the wall, talking amongst themselves. Mycroft is standing more formally now, his hands loose by his sides. Moriarty is gazing over the Training Centre with more than a little disgust, and both Janine and Irene are watching the other Tributes scornfully. 

‘Look, Greg!’ Suzie’s excitement captures his attention, as he feels a tug on his left hand. 

Greg looks down at where she’s managed to gather together the fundamental things they need to make a fire. There’s a young man, manning the station, who is watching her fondly. 

He steps over to them, just as Greg bends down to kneel next to where Suzie is puzzling over the different bits and pieces. 

‘Do you know how to start a fire?’ the young man asked. 

‘No,’ replied Suzie, smiling winningly up at him. ‘Can you teach me?’ 

The Capitol boy is charmed, and he kneels down on Suzie’s other side, and takes up a small, shortened stick and a knife. 

‘You see this one,’ he points, ‘Use your knife to pare the end of this stick down until it’s a point.’

‘Like a pencil?’ she asked. 

He smiled. ‘Exactly like that.’ 

‘Alright.’ And she sets to work, her small hands holding the knife and the stick, and beginning to shape it a little clumsily. 

It is a bit of a process, but Greg watches as she does it. Unfortunately, she presses a little too hard, and the end of the dowel snaps off, the point cracking and dropping onto the fake dirt floor of the station. ‘Whoops.’ 

‘That’s alright, try again,’ the boy said, smiling. 

‘Greg,’ Suzie looked up at him, her eyes wide and pleading. Greg can’t help it - she reminds him so strongly of John right in that moment. He sighs, and plucks the stick and the knife from her hands. 

He’s done this time and time again, to light the fire back on the farm so they can bake a little bread, or roast some meat and veggies over the fire. It’s an easy thing for him to shave and shape the tip of the stick into something a little workable for her. 

‘There you are.’ 

The Capitol boy manning the station looks up at Greg, over Suzie’s head. 

‘That was quick,’ he remarked. Greg just shrugged. 

‘I’m a farmer,’ he replied, ‘We don’t have ovens or fancy things like that back home. I have to use whatever I can to light a fire.’ 

He hums in agreement, just as Suzie begins to roll the dowel between her hands, like the pictures were showing, digging it in to create friction on the side of a larger branch of wood. 

‘Almost… there…’ she grunted, her small tongue poking out from between her lips. 

Repeatedly, she works her hand over the dowel, again and again and again, until a tiny bit of smoke curls up from the base of the dowel. 

‘I did it!’ She grinned in victory, holding up the branch to show off the small, blackened, smoky mark. 

‘Suzie, you gotta grab kindling,’ Greg told her, reaching over and picking up some dried grass, and quickly placing it over the smoky mark, before giving it a good, strong blow. 

Immediately, the kindling flared up, into a tiny flame. 

‘Wow!’ exclaimed Suzie, looking over the fire with excitement. ‘You’re really good at this, Greg.’ 

Greg’s heart breaks, as the platinum blonde turns her worshipful, blue eyes on him, gazing up at his face. 

‘Yeah,’ he replied, faintly. ‘I suppose. Just been at it for a long time, I guess.’ 

‘I wish my Mum told me useful stuff like that.’

‘Well,’ said Greg, ‘Didn’t your Mum teach you some stuff about medicine?’ 

‘Oh yeah!’ Suzie grinned, and stood, brushing the dirt off her knees. She grabbed ahold of Greg’s hand again, then turned to the boy manning the fire starting station. ‘Thanks!’ 

The boy just returned her smile. 

‘Come on, Greg,’ she prompted, tugging on his hand, and leading him over to where there seemed to be a small medical station, with all sorts of information about how to heal cuts, and how to use herbs to make remedies, as well as making makeshift bandages from leaves and spare bits of fabric and the like. 

‘My Mum taught me how to bandage people,’ she told him, proud. ‘Come, sit here.’ 

She pointed to a patch of ground, before moving towards where a small medical kit was sitting open on the bench inside the station. She snatched it up, and pulled it over to sit next to Greg. 

Pointing to a bit of his arm, she said; ‘Pretend like you have a cut here.’ 

‘Alright,’ Greg agreed, watching as she pulled out a roll of gauze from the bag, and unhooked the end. 

Quickly, her small, deft fingers set to work, taking the end of the gauze roll and wrapping it around Greg’s arm, right where she had said the cut was. ‘You have to make sure it’s tight. My Mum said that it’s important to bind the flesh together, to stop more bleeding.’

With that, she pulled the bandage tight, so tight that Greg was certain she must be cutting of the circulation to his hand. ‘While you do it, you have to apply pressure, too, to make sure that the blood doesn’t sneak through the edges.’ 

‘Wow,’ Greg nodded along with her, as she spoke the words with an air of knowledge. ‘I really hope I can stick around you in the Arena. Then if I get hurt, I know you can always patch me up.’ 

She smiled up at him, her eyes wide. ‘Really? You wanna be with me in the Arena?’

‘Of course,’ replied Greg. ‘I’m happy to.’ 

‘Are you sure?’ She looked away from him, a little sadly. ‘I know you and Dimmock both think I’m just a stupid little kid.’ 

‘Well,’ said Greg, not wanting to agree with her, ‘Would a stupid little kid really know how to bind me up so tightly that I don’t think there’s any blood left in my fingers?’ 

Suzie laughed, shoving him over a little. ‘Don’t be stupid, Greg.’ 

‘Oh!’ Greg gasped, in mock outrage. ‘I would never.’ 

***

Lunchtime was quite the ordeal.

All the Tributes were packed in like sardines around small, tin tables. There were six kids per table, aside from the Careers table, which was taken up by just the four Careers, who picked at their food and talked raucously amongst themselves. The high pitched giggles of the two girls were by far the loudest. 

Greg noted that Mycroft Holmes barely spoke. 

At Greg’s own table were the two Tributes from Seven; Griffin and Serena, and two from Five; Henry and Alinta, in addition to Suzie. 

Suzie was laughing, and smiling, and trying to engage the other four in conversation, but didn’t seem to be having much luck. The others seemed to just be picking at their food, pushing it around on their plates. 

Greg decided to swoop in and save Suzie. ‘So, Suzie, what do you miss the most about home? Cause right now, I think I miss my dog, Gladstone.’ 

‘Oh!’ Suzie said, brightly, ‘I definitely miss my storybook. The one with the Silver Knight, like you, Greg!’ 

‘And what about you, Alinta?’ asked Greg, trying to draw the other Tribute into the conversation with a charming grin. 

It worked. Alinta looked up from her food; ‘I miss my dog, too,’ she said, in a soft, but high pitched voice. 

‘Really?’ asked Greg, ‘What was his name?’ 

‘Her name was Bonnie,’ replied Alinta, smiling softly. ‘She was the best. She was a big, grey dog who could run really fast. My Dad used to race her, actually, but Bonnie’s a bit too old, now.’ 

‘That’s exciting,’ said Greg. 

The other Tributes were looking up in interest, now. 

‘I miss my favourite tree,’ Griffin volunteered, his forest green eyes looking at Greg. ‘It was the best. I could climb all the way up to the top and see around for ages.’ 

‘That’s cool,’ Greg smiled at him. ‘I reckon I would have liked to see that.’ 

‘I think I would have, too,’ said Suzie. ‘There aren’t really many very tall trees where Greg and me are from.’ 

‘I miss my brother,’ Henry said. ‘He’s a bit annoying, sometimes, but I do miss him.’ 

‘Well, aren’t all brothers annoying?’ said Alinta, grimacing. ‘I have a five-year-old brother, and he once stole all of my socks, and threw them into the pond.’ 

‘That’s horrible!’ gasped Suzie, in horror. 

‘It was,’ nodded Alinta, wisely. ‘I didn’t have any socks and my boots chafed _and_ it took ages for them to dry.’ 

‘That is horrible!’ agreed Greg. ‘I have a son, named John, back in the District,’ 

‘Really?’ asked Griffin. ‘You don’t look old enough to have a son.’ 

‘No, he’s adopted,’ explained Greg. ‘And he’s a menace too when he puts his mind to it. Once, he stole all of my underwear, tied them into a long rope, and put it along the bottom of the bedroom door, so when I got up in the morning, I walked out of the bedroom, tripped over, and fell right on my face!’ 

The entire table burst out in laughter, Griffin throwing his head back, and Serena, who had been quiet up to that point, giggling loudly, and clutching at her sides. 

Over her shoulder, the Career pack had gone entirely silent, and was staring across the room at them. Greg raised his eyes to meet Mycroft’s by now-familiar grey eyes, and cocked a brow in a silent challenge. 

Then, he looked away, back down the table at Suzie, grinning as charmingly as he possibly could. 

***

Greg laid awake that night. To be fair, he had done the same most nights that they had been in the Capitol, but tonight, he wasn’t thinking as much about John, and a little more about Suzie. Somehow, the tiny platinum blonde had crept her way into his heart.

Just another person he loved a little too much. 

Greg sighed, and rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. 

Should he have agreed with Dimmock? It didn’t feel like he was doing the right thing, by concealing the truth from her. It made him just as bad as her mother, hiding the truth from her, and not letting her decide for herself. 

Not that there was any decision to make here.

But, deep down, Greg thought that she might already know. She would have to be particularly blind to have missed it up to now. It was kind of obvious what was really going on. Or, at least, Greg thought so. 

He was rather cynical about the whole thing, after all. 

Maybe he couldn’t talk. 

But if he were in her position, would he really want the wool to be pulled over his eyes? Just for the sake of a few more days of happiness?

He wasn’t entirely sure. That was the worst part. 

He wasn’t sure that Dimmock wasn’t doing the right thing, by not telling her. 

Greg briefly remembered the look on her face, earlier today. Her joy when she realised that Greg intended to stick by her in the Arena. Her happiness at wearing that beautiful Princess dress at the Opening Parade. 

How much she reminded him of John. 

Maybe that was blinding him. Maybe his perception of her, his projection of John onto her was blinkering him to what was best. 

He wanted John to always be aware. To be able to understand the full ramifications of not only his own decisions, but the decisions of everyone else around him. It was important, he thought, to understand the full implications of the situations in which he found himself. So that he could do something about it. Make it better, even, if he had that option. 

But there was no real alternate option here, was there? She was going to die, or he was. There was almost no chance that she would survive.

Maybe she shouldn’t have to. 

Suzie was so innocent. She was so good, so pure. This world, this harsh, horrible world in which the ritualised execution of young men and women was made into a sport, didn’t deserve such a bright innocence and welcoming, developing mind. 

It was hard. It was just all, too hard. 

***

‘How has it been going?’ Dimmock asked him, over breakfast. Suzie had already swanned through, wolfing down a bit of toast before swanning out again, a blissful look on her face that had driven daggers into Greg’s chest. 

‘Fine,’ Greg replied, around a mouthful of bread roll smeared with chocolate. 

Dimmock just raised an eyebrow. ‘You only did survival skills and medicine and things yesterday, didn’t you?’ 

Greg glared at him around his mouthful of food. 

‘Suzie told Calypso, who told me.’

There was silence. 

‘Lestrade, you need to find some time to teach her at least a little combat skills. You shouldn’t reveal your talent for the swords and daggers this early on. It’ll make the Careers underestimate you. Save it for the Gamemakers’ assessment. 

‘But do try and teach her some basic parries. And how not to cut herself on a dagger, or something.’ 

Greg swallowed. 

‘Why?’ he spat, venomously. ‘What’s the damn point? You reckon she’s just going to die anyway.’ 

‘I’m trying, here,’ said Dimmock. ‘And we can’t have her not fight. The Capitol won’t like it.’ 

‘Screw the Capitol,’ Greg shot back. ‘This is a real human life. Dimmock, just so I know, do you care about that, at all?’ 

‘Yes. But my priority is keeping you alive for as long as I can.’ 

‘No,’ corrected Greg, ‘You dick, your priority should be keeping the both of us alive for as long as possible!’ 

‘How?!’ Dimmock roared. ‘Why? What is the fucking point, Lestrade? I can only ever save one of you, and even then, I might not! In fact, I probably won’t!’ 

‘Enough, Dimmock,’ Greg snapped. ‘Enough. I’ve done what you asked. I haven’t told her the truth. It’s eating me up inside, but I haven’t told her yet. But you will do your best for the both of us. You will help the both of us, or so help me I will murder you. You know I can do it.’ 

‘Fine,’ Dimmock sighed, dropping back into his seat. ‘So, teach her to use a sword. Or at least a mallet, or a staff. I don’t really care.’ 

‘Yes, you do.’ Greg replied, setting down his cutlery and sweeping from the table. 

***

In the Training Centre, that day, Greg took Suzie’s hand, and led her over to where there were some practice swords, made out of plastic. 

‘Suzie,’ he said, turning to her and holding her shoulders, seriously. ‘I’m gonna teach you something, and you have to pay attention, alright.’ 

‘Okay,’ said Suzie, easily. ‘What is it?’ 

‘I’m going to teach you to use a sword, alright?’ 

‘I don’t think I can do that, Greg. I think I’m just going to run, I’m not going to worry about that stuff.’ 

‘Listen to me, Suzie, I don’t mind if you don’t ever use it in the Games, I just want you to know how to. If you need it.’ 

‘I suppose,’ Suzie said, but she still seemed rather unsure of herself. 

‘I’ll show you, alright. It’s easy.’ 

Greg picked up one of the training swords, weighing and balancing it in one hand easily. It was well-balanced, and didn’t seem like it would do too much harm. 

It would do. 

***

Greg was laying awake again. 

Suzie had done well. She had absorbed everything that Greg had gone through with her, and he had only caught Mycroft watching him a few times, although he knew it would have been more. 

He had tried to stay in a far corner, hopefully not attracting too much attention. He didn’t think it had worked. 

But Suzie. Tiny, sweet Suzie, who was so like John, who John would have adored if he had ever met her. 

The guilt was eating him up. Suzie had done it, she had used the sword and she hadn’t complained and she hadn’t even known why Greg was doing it. She had this idea, to just run and hide and then she would be alright. And even if she was caught, she didn’t know what would happen to her. 

Dimmock’s whole attitude towards the thing was disgusting. It was horrible, and Greg couldn’t believe he was condoning it.

He was letting it happen. Suzie was going in there blind, with no idea of the true stakes, the true reality of it. It was vicious, cruel. It was mean. 

And Greg couldn’t take it. 

Shooting upright, off his pillow, Greg rolled off the bed. It was a simple matter of making his way to the door, and then going the short way down the hall to Suzie’s room. 

Knocking on the door, he hissed quietly. ‘Suzie.’ 

‘Suzie,’ he repeated, when there was no answer. ‘Suzie, come on.’ 

Rapping on the door harder, he was surprised when the platinum blonde finally opened the door, looking at him blearily. 

‘Whaddyou want…’ she mumbled, at him, blinking sleepily. 

‘Come up to the roof with me.’ 

‘Why?’ 

Greg took a deep breath. ‘Cause I want to talk to you.’ 

Suzie seemed to immediately pick up on the more serious tone of what he was saying. 

‘Alright,’ she nodded, blinking awake rapidly, and following him out the door. 

They climbed their way up onto the roof in silence, the dense silence hanging tense between them. He could tell Suzie knew something was going on. That there was something Greg was hiding from her. 

The roof was dark, windy and cold. The garden was lit up, suffused with the orange light and a little of the silvery, reflected light from the city. 

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ asked Greg, after a moment perched there on the edge of the roof.

‘Yeah,’ replied Suzie, ‘It’s nothing like home, is it?’ 

‘No,’ said Greg. ‘It’s not.’ 

He wasn’t sure how to say this. He didn’t want to say this. 

Should he just back out, like a coward? Let Suzie have this, these few days? 

No. 

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself. ‘Suzie, Dimmock’s been lying to you. So has Calypso.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Suzie, her breath ghosting in the air, matching her hair. 

‘And… I’ve been lying to you. A bit.’ 

‘What’s the lie?’ she asked him. 

‘It’s just… Suzie…’

Greg took another deep breath. ‘Suzie, I wouldn’t tell you this otherwise, but I think you deserve to know. I think everyone deserves to know. Suzie, the Games…’ 

‘Yeah?’ 

‘The Hunger Games… if you get caught, the Capitol doesn’t just take you back. They don’t save you. You don’t… if you get caught, you don’t get to go home.’ 

‘Oh. Where do we go after this, then?’ she asked him. 

‘Suzie, we don’t go anywhere,’ Greg said, softly. ‘Suzie, if you get caught, you die. The person who catches you… they kill you. And if you’re starving, or if you’re sick… the Capitol doesn’t save you. They let you die.’ 

‘No,’ laughed Suzie. ‘That’s not funny, Greg. Don’t be silly.’ 

‘I’m not, Suzie. I wish I was,’ Greg gasped, holding back tears. ‘I wish… I wish so badly that I was wrong, that once this is over, once I get ‘caught’, I get to go back to Ten, and back to John, but that’s not what’s gonna happen.’ 

‘Greg…’ Suzie was crying now, big, fat tears rolling down her face. ‘No. Please tell me you’re wrong.’ 

‘I’m not… I wish… I wish so bad I was… but I’m not. Your Mum, she hid it from you. She turned the telly off, before you could see. But those Tributes, downstairs, when we get into the Arena in three days’ time, they’re all gonna try and kill you.’ 

‘Why would you tell me that? Why?’ She was crying, her words cutting, and harsh. ‘Why would you…’ 

‘I’m sorry, Suzie, please, please forgive me… Dimmock was lying… that’s not right!’ 

‘But… I…’ 

Suzie seemed unable to process, throwing herself to her feet. ‘Greg… I don’t know if I can… I’m not… How could you? How could you tell me that? Why couldn’t you have just left it? Why?’ 

She threw herself at him, bodily, bowling him over with a strong shove, then sprinted off, back through the gardens. With a slam of the exit, she was gone. 

Greg could feel the tears, pouring down his face. Pushing himself upright was a struggle, and he couldn’t summon the strength to brush the dirt from his clothes. 

He began to stumble back towards the exit, barely able to see through the fog of the tears on his face. Unfortunately, his legs were too weak, and he ended up stumbling against the trunk of a nearby tree, growing out of the roof. The pain of it all wracked his frame, and he closed his eyes, briefly, his legs shaking and knees knocking underneath him. 

Taking a few deep breaths, trying to stave off the panic attack, Greg rallied himself, and gathered his feet underneath him, hoping to all hell that he wasn’t about to collapse again. 

Upright, he stood, and turned. 

The first thing he saw was the tall form of Mycroft Holmes; grey eyes shimmering in the light of the city, ginger hair dark in the moonlight, silhouetted against the brilliance of the city, and the night sky behind him. 


	7. Training

‘Fuck!’ Greg stumbled backwards, his back hitting the tree behind him. Mycroft had seemingly appeared from nowhere - he hadn’t even heard the other Tribute approach. Mycroft just looked over at him, mildly. 

‘Lovely,’ he commented, wryly. 

The other Tribute’s voice, in the quiet up here on the roof, was silky smooth, and had a gravelly undertone to it that made Greg’s knees immediately feel weak. What was this man doing to him? Was he doing it on purpose? To make Greg weaker?

‘Sorry,’ Greg managed, ‘you just scared me.’ 

‘Apologies,’ replied Mycroft, ‘I simply came up to enjoy the view.’ 

‘I didn’t know other Tributes knew how to come up here.’ 

Mycroft didn’t even deign to reply, simply turning and looking back at Greg, raising a slightly disdainful eyebrow, as if Greg had said something so eminently obvious it didn’t even garner a response. In a way, Greg guessed he had. But there was something about him, about Mycroft, that was just frying his brain. 

‘So,’ Greg shifted his feet, a little awkwardly. Mycroft was still staring at him, that penetrating, grey gaze peering right through Greg. Greg could tell that Mycroft was sizing him up, wondering if he was a threat, and concluding he wasn’t. ‘What… um…’ 

Greg suddenly realised that he had so many questions, but none of them could reach the tip of his tongue. Instead, he fell silent. 

Mycroft stared. 

The entire situation was completely odd. Greg had no idea what to say, and it didn’t seem like Mycroft had anything he wanted to say, either. So they just stared at each other. 

After a moment, Mycroft seemed to decide something, and cleared his throat. ‘I heard what you said to her,’ said the District One Tribute. 

‘Oh?’ managed Greg, weakly. 

‘Yes. You made the right decision, you know.’ 

Greg laughed, wryly. ‘It doesn’t feel like it.’ 

‘Why?’ asked Mycroft. ‘Why does it feel like you did the wrong thing? You told her the truth. Surely that is far better than living a lie.’ 

‘She was innocent,’ Greg shot back. ‘She was so innocent, and so _young,_ and she damn well deserves better than having to be shoved into these goddamn Games, just to be sent out into the Arena and be killed by you, or one of your little friends! Not that you’d understand that - bloody well volunteered, didn’t you?’ 

‘You did as well,’ replied Mycroft, mildly. ‘I watched it.’ 

‘I volunteered because I had no choice. I couldn’t let Alex die - his sister is like my sister. His sister _is_ my sister. I couldn’t do that to her. Not when I had a chance to stop it.’ 

There was silence. Mycroft cocked his head to the side, his gaze penetrating. 

‘That was rather brave of you, wasn’t it?’ he commented, after a moment. ‘Then again, bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity.’ 

‘Of course you would think that,’ Greg muttered, under his breath. Finally, Mycroft looked away from Greg. 

And Greg hated the fact that he almost missed that penetrating gaze, knowing he was the centre of that Tribute’s attention. That _man’s_ attention. 

There was an abrupt, awkward silence. 

Greg took the chance to look Mycroft up and down; size him up, just as Mycroft had done to him. 

The tall ginger was silhouetted against the dark sky, the Capitol shimmering behind him. His entire body and face was cast in shadow, his profile outlined against the dark and shimmering slightly in the moonlight. His nose was long, arched, and regal-looking; very fitting after the kingly outfit that he had been decked out in at the Opening Ceremony. 

Right now, though, he was wearing an outfit almost identical to what he had been wearing at the Reaping. A pinstripe, three-piece suit that just screamed luxury and elegance. But now, Greg was getting a look at it, right up close, without the filter of the screen and other people around to temper his reaction. Now, he could rake his eyes up and down Mycroft’s lean form; particularly the way that the suit hugged the other’s legs and arse. 

And it was a _lovely_ arse, round and plush; like nothing Greg had ever seen before. 

He wore the entire ensemble with such confidence, a strong sense of being and belonging. Mycroft Holmes knew how to wear a suit; he had been wearing one all his life. He was a man clearly used to luxury, someone who had never had any reason to understand hardship. And he likely never would. This encounter, on the roof, it only served to convince Greg even more that if anyone was going to win the Games, out of all the Tributes, it was going to be him, this Tribute from District One who knew what he was doing. He had a way of holding himself that was intimidating, that made him seem almost like a god, brought down from on high. As if he could decide, personally, who lived and who died. 

In the Arena, he could. Would. 

The chain glinted in the light reflected off the city. It shimmered, painting a perfect picture; something Greg wanted to have and hold. Which was strange, seeing as he was really facing the man who would most likely end up killing him. Murdering him in the Arena.

‘You know, they’ve told me a lot of stuff about you,’ Greg blurted out, before he could stop himself. Mycroft turned to look back at Greg, who braved taking a step forwards towards the other Tribute. 

‘Yes, I suppose they would have,’ replied Mycroft, his grey eyes focused. 

‘Just… you know… stuff,’ Greg mumbled, shifting his feet, ‘From the other Tributes, and my coach and a few others…’ 

‘Are you going to make a point?’ Mycroft asked, sharply, raising an eyebrow. 

Greg looked up at the other Tribute, fast enough to just catch a glimpse of what looked like some sort of predatory anger. Biting his lip, sharply, Greg desperately searched for what to say next. 

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself. ‘They told me you are a killing machine. That you’re deadly. They say you’re the greatest Career ever to come out of the Academy - that this year, you’re going to win.’ 

Mycroft blinked, then looked away. He let out a low sigh, to Greg’s surprise. There was a complete and utter silence, falling over them like rain in the middle of winter. Greg took another deep breath, and stepped up beside Mycroft, who was now looking out over the city. 

The city itself was gorgeous, all silver lines and harsh angles, lit up by the moon. The streets were filled with people in a riot of colour; pinks and oranges and blues. It seemed like the Capitol never really slept, the city always humming with life and people and _purpose._

It made Greg long for the quiet, soft evenings back in the District. 

‘It _is_ lovely,’ said Mycroft, startling Greg. Greg looked over at Mycroft, who was gazing out over the city in a sort of mild interest, or disinterest. What surprised him the most was that Mycroft had followed his train of thought, somehow. 

‘Yeah,’ Greg agreed, weakly. ‘I think… I think it’s a bit busy for me, though.’

‘Ah, yes, you would be used to the more sedate life. District Ten; quite calm, I assume.’ 

‘It is, I guess. Just in the evenings, and at night though. During the day you have to do your work or else you won’t have enough to eat.’ 

Greg didn’t say what he thought. He didn’t say that he thought Mycroft had no clue what life was like in the _real_ Districts. He basically had the privilege of a Capitol citizen. 

‘Your friend,’ said Mycroft, ‘The girl, Suzie Gates. The one who had no idea that she is going to die in these Games.’ 

‘What about her?’ asked Greg, turning defensive. Mycroft cast a look at him out of the corner of his eye; a look that seemed to state his dismissal of Greg’s pitiful defence within the breadth of a second. 

‘In the Arena. She could be used against you.’ 

‘You think I don’t know that?!’ Greg said, hotly. 

‘I think that you care, far too much,’ said Mycroft. ‘Caring is not an advantage.’ 

‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked Greg. ‘Wouldn’t you want to tell me the opposite? Make me weak - more of a target for you to pick off early on?’ 

‘No,’ said Mycroft, turning to face Greg. ‘I’m not telling you for your benefit. I’m telling you this for my own benefit. I know that nothing I say to you will change your mind about caring. I can tell - that is not the sort of man that you are.’ 

‘I don’t understand.’ 

‘You will,’ replied Mycroft, ‘Perhaps. If I decide.’ 

‘Decide what?’ 

‘You interest me, Gregory.’ 

Greg laughed, wryly. ‘Is that a compliment?’ 

‘That depends.’ 

‘On what?’ 

‘On how you react to it. Now, and in the Arena.’ 

Greg was lost for words. He had no idea what to say to that. His words choked up in his throat, he went back to observing the skyline, but not actually seeing it. 

Finally, he came across what it was that he wanted to say. ‘Why do I interest you?’ 

Mycroft smirked. ‘Finally. You’re asking the correct questions.’ 

‘Well?’ 

‘There is a war coming, Gregory,’ said Mycroft, obscurely. ‘And I don’t just mean the one in the Arena. That is the smallest battle. No, the war that is coming is far greater than you or I or these stupid little Games.’ 

‘They’re not that stupid or little,’ said Greg, ‘Not to me, not to that little girl in there, and not to all of the people you’re going to kill in the Arena in a few days’ time.’

Mycroft looked at Greg. There was something, in Mycroft’s face. A twitch, something there, Greg just couldn’t tell what. He couldn’t see past the great big walls of ice that Mycroft seemed to have erected. Greg wanted… was trying to have an honest conversation with this supposed killing machine, but this man… this Tribute was blocking him at every turn. It was too hard, too difficult to see Mycroft. Really see him. 

‘These Games, they are just a stepping stone. I intend for them to be far more than just an ordinary Hunger Games,’ said Mycroft. ‘I want to make a point.’ 

‘Make a point to who?’ asked Greg. ‘There’s no one to make a point to.’ 

To his surprise, Mycroft laughed, wryly. ‘There is a point to make, Gregory. There is always a point. It is just so blindingly obvious. You helped, yourself. Your actions, at the Reaping. When you volunteered. You are becoming a symbol, already.’ 

‘What does that _mean?’_

‘You ask so very many questions, Gregory.’ 

‘Because you never give a direct answer, _Mycroft_.’ 

‘That is true,’ Mycroft smirked, wryly, his face predatory. ‘But you are asking the wrong questions of me. Ask me the right question, and I will give you the right answer.’ 

‘Why do I interest you?’ asked Greg. 

In the silence between their breaths, Mycroft took a step closer. This close, Greg could see right into Mycroft’s eyes; he had to look up to do it. Mycroft was taller than he was, his chin about the height of Greg’s lips. The other’s Tribute’s gaze was intent, intense, focused. His lips were turned up in the corners, acknowledging Greg’s words and his questions. 

‘You interest me because,’ replied Mycroft, quietly, his breaths ghosting over Greg’s face, making him realise exactly how close they were, ‘You are not a coward. You stood, and you held up your hand, and you are walking around knowing that you may very easily die within the next two weeks. 

‘You drew attention to yourself. Whether it was on purpose or not, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you did it. You have the eyes of the Capitol upon you, everyone will be observing you. All of us, the Careers, you call us, will be after you. You are most likely _going_ to die. 

‘Yet you still found time to talk with the other Tributes. You made them laugh. You made them care about you. You made yourself care about them. You know what it is going to cost you, and make no mistake, it _is_ going to cost you, and you did it anyway. 

‘I have never come across someone like you.’ 

There was a lot there. Mycroft’s eyes were locked with Greg’s, and Greg couldn’t look away. It was pure self-indulgence, allowing himself to be caught up in the gaze of the other Tribute, like the mouse within the grip of the viper. He couldn’t help but feel as if he was staring down some great predator, some wild, but controlled animal poised to kill him at any turn. 

‘You know,’ Mycroft whispered, ‘you really shouldn’t listen to everything that everyone else is telling you about me.’ 

‘Why?’ Greg whispered, in return, not willing to pass up the opportunity presented to him. ‘Are they wrong?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Mycroft. ‘They called me a ‘killing machine’, you said. But, Gregory, I am far more than that. I am far more than anyone knows, or gives me credit for. They have all under-exaggerated. For I do not just _kill_ people, or make plans to kill people and make war and wage battles. 

‘I see people. I see people, with all their flaws and their faults and their insecurities, and I see right through them. I see right through you all. I see people who I can pull apart, and look inside, and then turn around to fight one another. People who I can make do my bidding. 

‘I do not _just_ kill people. That would be far too dull, and a waste of a good human. No, I _consume_ people. 

‘And I have never met someone who I have wanted to consume more than you, Gregory.’ 

Greg gulped, biting his lip. He was paralysed, unable to move, stuck here within a hair’s breadth of Mycroft Holmes; the Tribute that everyone warned him about. The one he was going to have to run from, in the Arena, the one who was supposedly going to hunt him down, like a cat playing with a mouse. 

He had to say something. ‘No-one calls me Gregory,’ he managed. 

‘Precisely,’ replied Mycroft. ‘And that is why _I_ do it.’ 

‘Why are you telling me all this?’ 

‘It is only fair that I warn you.’ 

‘They told me that you are going to hunt me down, in the Arena. You’re going to hunt me down and catch me and kill me and I will have no chance whatsoever.’ 

‘No,’ Mycroft said, ‘You won’t. But, that’s rather the point, isn’t it?’ 

Mycroft’s breath continued to ghost over Greg’s face. His nose was mere centimetres away from Mycroft’s own, his eyes locked with the taller ginger’s. The light of the city played over both of their faces, brilliantly gleaming off the bright skin of Mycroft’s face, showing off that darkly predatory look. Because that was what it was. Mycroft was a predator, and Greg was his prey. 

They had begun the Games long ago, and Greg knew he was going to lose. 

He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to fight back. Wanted to try. 

Then, he remembered John. 

Oh… John. John, who was waiting for him in District Ten, with his fingers crossed, hoping beyond hope that Greg would survive. That Greg would make it, and fight damn hard to do it, as well. 

Mycroft’s voice had rolled over him, his words had sent Greg’s bones rattling, his mind shaking and reeling, trying to recover. 

Everything this Tribute had said was designed to unhinge him, give him that sense of being on the edge. It was succeeding, but Mycroft didn’t need to know that. 

Greg took a deep breath, closing his eyes. What was he doing? What the hell was he thinking?

He had to get out of here. He had to get out, now. 

When he opened his eyes, he realised he didn’t have to. 

Mycroft was gone. 

There was no trace of him left. Greg knew where he had been, just a moment ago, but now he was gone. The final ghost of his breath over Greg’s face had barely disappeared, but it was as if he hadn’t even been there. 

Greg stumbled back, his knees finally giving out beneath him, and sending him toppling to the floor. Pressing a hand over his mouth, Greg was ashamed to admit that his cock was rock-hard.

The adrenaline flooding through his system, in combination with those deadly looks and the gravelly, cool, posh tones of Mycroft Holmes’ voice was enough to make his skin buzz, and stars pop in his vision. 

An enormous amount of shame overwhelmed Greg, as he flicked down his flies, and pulled his turgid cock from his pants. Jerking off to the memory of Mycroft Holmes’ breaths breezing over his skin like fingers, Greg tossed his head back into the grass and pulled and pulled and pulled until the hot, tight sensation under his skin was just too much. 

His cock was leaking profusely, all over his right fist, trickling down between his fingers. It was obscene, the skin darkened pink, tight and hot and as rigid as steel. The bottoms of his feet were prickling with sensitivity, and the emotional turmoil of the last half-an-hour only ended up contributing to his shocking, almost painful arousal. 

It was just enough; the sound of Mycroft’s voice in his ear, the memory of his face and lean figure and plush arse, the very idea of Mycroft’s lips and hands and fingers that looked dextrous enough to reach deep inside him. Just enough to push him over the edge, sending him spilling with a scream muffled into his arm. 

Clamping his teeth down over the flesh, his cock spilt white fluid all over his fingers, up his shirt, and almost all the way up to his chin. It was the most explosively sexual thing he had felt in his life before, and he felt like he was at risk of becoming addicted. Because it was just that; addictive. 

He was at serious risk of falling prey to that Career, just with a single look and a few whispered, gravelly words. The memory of Mycroft’s words; _I have never met someone who I have wanted to consume more than you._

And that was fine. Absolutely fine. 

***

‘Greg?’ 

Dimmock’s voice, and Dimmock’s knock, on his door, was the first thing Greg registered the next morning. 

‘What is it?’ Greg demanded, still half-asleep. 

‘I need to talk to you.’ 

‘Right now?’ 

‘Yes!’ Dimmock’s voice was much closer now, right over where Greg was laying in bed. Greg opened his eyes, bidding a last regretful goodbye to the vestiges of sleep, to look up at his coach, who was now towering over him, a thunderous expression on his face. ‘You told her,’ accused the Victor. 

‘Yes,’ Greg replied, not even bothering to deny it. 

‘You went against my orders. I specifically told you not to tell her, and you did the exact opposite.’ 

‘She deserved to know,’ said Greg, almost not bothered to reply. 

‘She didn’t need to. It was unnecessary.’ 

‘How the _hell_ was something like that unnecessary?!’ demanded Greg. ‘We’ve already had this talk, Dimmock. I ain’t gonna repeat myself. If you don’t like it, too bad. I’ve told her. There ain’t no taking that back.’ 

‘This is going to make her sloppy. It’s going to make her panic in the Arena, and she won’t be able to fend for herself.’ 

‘Yes, she will,’ Greg shot back. ‘I made sure of it. I taught her how to use a sword, and I taught her how to survive.’ 

‘That isn’t enough to keep her alive, and you know it. She has to have the willpower to live. She doesn’t. You know she doesn’t.’ 

‘You underestimate her, Dimmock. And she’s made allies. She and I both have allies.’ 

‘What, those malnourished kids that you talked to once at lunch yesterday? They aren’t allies, Lestrade, don’t be stupid. They are kids who, just like her, are going to be killed in two seconds flat.’ 

Greg sighed, and begun to get ready. Dimmock followed him. 

‘Listen to me, Lestrade. You need to get your head out of your arse and see the bigger picture here, do you understand me? If you’re not careful, then you’re going to be just like those kids - dead in the first few hours.

‘But if you listen to me, and if you take my advice, then you won’t.’ 

‘Definitely,’ Greg shot back, ‘Because _you’ve_ given me such great words of wisdom so far.’ 

Dimmock opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, Greg turned to him. ‘No, don’t. So far, all you’ve done for me is tell me that I’m going to die, warn me about Mycroft Holmes, scare the living shit out of that poor little girl, and force me to lie to that same little girl. 

‘So unless you actually want to contribute to my further survival, then no, I will not be taking your _advice._ I do things my own way, and if you want to contribute, I want you to. If all you’re gonna do is be negative, and unhelpful, then please. Shut up. Because yeah, I know I’m gonna die. But I might as well live a little, do what I think is right, and fight as damn hard as I can to survive.’ 

Dimmock was speechless, his features red with anger. He looked apoplectic with anger, as if steam would come shooting out of his ears at the slightest provocation. 

‘Fine,’ he gritted out. ‘If you insist on being so bull-headed, I suppose there ain’t gonna be anything I can do to change your mind.’ 

‘So, you’ll help?’ Greg was actually hopeful, finding it within himself to grin at the coach. 

This actually seemed to mollify Dimmock, who sighed, and dropped his shoulders. ‘This afternoon. You and I will have a discussion about the best tactics.’ 

‘Good,’ Greg said, briefly. ‘And Dimmock? Thank you.’ 

Dimmock turned sharply on one heel to exit the room, but just before he did, he paused in the doorway. 

‘I do actually care about you, Lestrade. And I want you to survive. I do.’ 

‘Thank you, Dimmock,’ Greg replied, softly, realising how hard that must have been for the other man.

Greg could feel for him. He had to have some sort of coping mechanism for dealing with the deaths of so many other Tributes. And, perhaps, if he were in Dimmock’s position, having survived everything he did and understanding how all this, these Games, work, he would have chosen the same thing for Suzie. Maybe he would have just left it, let Suzie have her daydream of innocence. 

Because it had to be hard. Watching all those Tributes die, those young, innocent souls with no other choice, forced into this situation by the Capitol. 

‘Yeah, alright,’ Dimmock said, gruffly, before exiting the room entirely, and stomping off down the hall. Far too loudly to be sincere. 

***

Down in the Training Centre, Greg found himself at a loose end. Suzie had brushed past him some time ago, and was off starting fires, practicing furiously. She hadn’t even acknowledged Greg; clearly still angry, then. 

Greg wasn’t entirely sure what to do. Dimmock had advised him that it might not be a good idea to show off exactly what it is he could to with a sword and a couple of knives until the Gamemakers’ assessment. It was best that the competition, and Mycroft (his mind added), not know what he was capable of until they were in the Arena. 

It was better that he appear weak, an easy catch. 

That way he would be left for later, an afterthought, while the Careers went for the weaker, easier prey. 

Not that that wold matter to Mycroft. Besides, Greg was almost a hundred percent certain that Mycroft already knew what he was capable of. Knowing the other Tribute, and suddenly being more… intimately aware of what the other Tribute seemed to be capable of himself, then Mycroft would already know everything about Greg’s history and abilities, just from the way he walked. 

Eventually, Greg decided on walking over to the station for knife-throwing. He stopped by the rack, where the knives were awaiting his inspection. There was an enormous range, from large hunting knives to tiny, needle-like daggers. 

Slowly, Greg moved down the line, inspecting each in turn and slowly picking out ones that he thought were medium-range; not so good that it looked like he knew what he was doing and what he was looking for, but good enough that they would allow him to actually practice without having to worry about bad weighting, or unsuitability. 

It was easier, with the knife in his hand, to see the point of what it was they were trying to do. It was easier, with the weapon, to think outside of what had happened, the rapid emotional switches of the morning. 

And, of course, it was a great way to get out his anger, frustration and shame with the whole situation, and with his secretive wank on the roof of the Tribute Tower. 

Afterwards, he had immediately rushed down from the garden, rapidly erasing the evidence as quickly and as efficiently as he could. He had used the enormous shower, a contraption it had taken him quite a while to figure out how to use, but once he did it was a far-cry from the cold bucket over the head back home. All the evidence had been washed away down the drain, so the only evidence that remained was his own shame. 

His own inability to resist Mycroft, with his damned long legs and plush arse and sexily predatory grin, and that gravelly voice that did things to Greg’s nether region whenever he thought of it. 

He was in the damned Hunger Games; he didn’t have time for foolish pursuits like that. Futile ones, as well. 

_Thunk!_

The first dagger sunk home, right where he had aimed it on the panel behind the targets. Greg wasn’t stupid enough to actually try and aim to hit the targets - that would be too suspicious. Instead, by finding a point with his eyes and aiming for it, Greg gave the impression he was bad while still being able to get some sort of practice in. 

_Thunk!_

The second dagger sunk home. 

The repetitive motion, drawing his arms back, careful not to let the blade bit into his skin hard enough to draw blood, then tossing it end-over-end to stab straight into the point at which he had aimed. 

Thankfully, no-one seemed to be looking at his posture or his movement.

Except, of course, Mycroft. 

Greg could feel the familiar weight of the other Tribute’s knowing gaze on the back of his neck. He had no illusion that Mycroft was oblivious to Greg’s true ability. Mycroft was a _tactician,_ after all. He probably even knew what Greg was trying to do - disguising his abilities the way that he currently was. 

_Thunk!_

That throw had perhaps been a little too forceful. Too angry. 

Mycroft’s gaze had finally lifted from the back of his neck, and Greg finally got the courage to turn, and try and catch a glimpse of the ginger out of the corner of his eye. 

He didn’t have to turn far; the other teen was standing at the next station over. The station was a little out of the norm, it had an enormous keyboard with symbols printed on it, and the same keyboard replicated in a screen on the wall above.

Mycroft’s eyes, and fingers, were darting rapidly over the keys on the board, matching them with those that flashed up on the screen. Or something. Greg couldn’t quite figure out what it was that was going on; some sort of puzzle, he guessed. 

Greg had to tear his eyes away. 

Returning to the dagger in his hand, Greg drew it back. He let the silence of the wind up to the throw wash over him, taking sweet relief in the lack of anything else but his father’s words in his head. 

_‘Draw it back like that, Greggie. All the power has to come from this.’_

Greg closed his eyes, briefly, before opening them, and focusing on a target just to the right. His fingers twitched around the blade, before he tightened them, swung, and released. 

_Thunk!_

Perfect. 

Again. 

_Thunk!_

Perfect. 

Repeat. 

_Thunk!_

_Thunk!_

_Thunk!_

‘I know what you’re doing,’ came the whispered, gravelly tone, right by his ear. ‘I am not a fool.’ 

Mycroft’s voice made him start. Last time he had seen the other teen, Mycroft had been doing the puzzle. It seemed he had finished. Greg whipped around, but Mycroft was already gone, gliding smoothly away from Greg. 

Greg took another, deep, calming breath. 

However, he could suddenly feel someone else’s gaze on him. Turning, Greg spotted the source. Jim Moriarty, sitting idly on one of the raised blocks on the other side of the Training Centre, was staring at him, his head cocked to one side. 

When he spotted Greg returning his gaze, he smiled, and gave a jaunty little wave. Greg shuddered. 

***

‘You had some advice for me?’ 

‘Yes, I did,’ replied Dimmock. ‘Please, have a seat.’ 

Greg complied, throwing himself down into the lounge across from Dimmock. They were in a smaller sitting room, Calypso off doing something, but Suzie sitting quietly at the dining table a little way away. 

‘This is for you as well, Suzie. For when you get into the Games.’ 

Greg nodded, leaning forwards on one elbow to listen. 

‘When you get into the Games, you both know the rough layout. You know that there’s a Cornucopia in the middle of the circle of Tributes before the Games starts.’ 

‘I know. Inside there’s resources and weapons and things.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Dimmock. ‘There will be.’ 

‘So, do we try and go for that?’ asked Suzie, quietly. 

‘No,’ replied Dimmock, ‘You don’t. You don’t try to grab stuff, you just run. Do you understand?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg said, nodding. 

‘When you get in there, the Arena might be natural, it might not be. I don’t know. Last year, it was very wet, with a large lake and easy access to fish. The Cornucopia was on the island in the middle, and there were islands scattered around. That made it difficult to get around, but not impossible. This year, I just don’t know. 

‘If there is a grassland area, of some sort, try and head for that. Greg, you know how to conceal yourself in that sort of area. If there isn’t, then go for the woods. Find a spot in the forest. 

‘Trees are good coverage. It’s a good way to stay hidden.’ 

‘But what about resources? If we don’t get anything from the Cornucopia, how will we survive?’ 

‘If you go to the Cornucopia, you will be killed almost instantly,’ explained Dimmock. ‘Every year, it’s always a bloodbath over the best resources. Your best bet is to go into the forest, to run and to hide and to use your skills to survive off what you can find there. 

‘Then, later, you can go back. You can go back to the Cornucopia, pick up what’s left over. If you find the bodies of other Tributes, as well, don’t be afraid to pick up their weapons, their resources. Use whatever you can.’ 

‘Alright,’ said Greg. ‘Run, don’t try to fight, and hide.’ 

‘Basically,’ Dimmock said. ‘Yes. But be warned. The Career pack, they like to weed out the hiders first. They like to go into the forest and find the hiders and kill them. 

‘And, don’t, whatever you do, start a fire in the first few days. The smoke can be seen for miles. You’ll be dead before you can even shake a stick.’ 

‘How do we stay warm, then?’ asked Suzie. ‘If we can’t have a fire.’ 

‘Find a cave, if you want a fire. Something to hide the smoke and the light. You can also use leaves.’ 

‘What about the Gamemakers?’ Greg asked. 

‘The Gamemakers hate you and want you dead. That’s a good rule of thumb.’ 

‘Great,’ said Greg, wryly, ‘That’s ever so helpful.’ 

‘Yes, Greg,’ Dimmock shot back, ‘It is. The Gamemakers will try to drive Tributes together. They come up with new and inventive ways to flush the Tributes through the Arena and together.’ 

‘Can you do anything about that?’ asked Greg. 

Dimmock just shook his head. 

‘What about Feasts?’ Traditionally, a feast was held about halfway through for all the Tributes left. When Tributes went, to pick up new supplies and renew their weapons, often they would be killed off. 

‘Don’t go to them,’ said Dimmock. ‘Bad idea. They always end up as a bloodbath, just like the Cornucopia at the start of the Games.’ 

‘If,’ continued Dimmock, ‘by some miracle, you survive to that time, just leave it. You shouldn’t be so desperate that you need to go, anyway. So I wouldn’t worry about it.’ 

‘And the Careers?’ asked Suzie. 

‘Avoid them by all means necessary. Even if it means climbing a tree. Just avoid them, don’t engage.’ 

‘Okay,’ said Greg, softly. 

He was most decidedly not thinking about Mycroft Holmes’ gravelly voice. Or his curled, gingery hair. 

There was silence. 

‘Is that all?’ asked Suzie. 

Dimmock looked away. ‘Yeah, basically.’ 

‘Okay.’ Suzie said, and dropped off her chair. ‘I think… I’m gonna go get some sleep. We have to do that assessment thing tomorrow.’ 

‘Yes, you do,’ said Dimmock. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ 

Suzie didn’t reply. 

Greg remained seated on the lounge, fiddling with his fingers. Briefly, he ran a hand through his grey hair, before dropping away to frown out the window. 

‘What have you got planned for tomorrow?’ asked Dimmock, suddenly. 

‘Just show off, I guess,’ Greg replied, shrugging. ‘Show them my knife skills and my sword skills. Do what I can.’ 

‘You’ll be fine,’ said Dimmock. ‘I know it. Your father was a great man. He knew how to handle weapons. He must have taught you something. And something is definitely better than nothing.’ 

‘I know,’ replied Greg, fiddling with his hands. 

There was something wrong. Something that didn’t quite feel right. It just felt so trivial, and there was so little advice that Dimmock could give them. There was no way to predict anything. No way to prepare, really. 

It was all just speculation. A bit of advice, a bit of theorising, but the rest of it was just a bit of luck, and a bit of surviving. 

Nothing for it, Greg supposed. 


	8. Judgement

Greg woke with a sinking sense of determination in the pit of his stomach. He knew what he had to do today, but it didn’t change the fact that he was nervous. Because he was. 

He had to impress the faceless, nameless Gamemakers. If he did it well, then he could be given a score that would prompt the sponsors to sponsor him. The better sponsors he got, the better his chances were of surviving. Sponsors could give you materials, weapons, food, anything really, if they had the money to pay for it. 

It could mean the difference between winning and losing. 

On year, Greg remembered, a Tribute had been given a spear. It had just dropped out of the sky for him, a few sponsors banding together. Greg didn’t want to even think how much that would have cost. And the Tribute had won. With the extra weapon, he had killed four other Tributes in quick succession, leading to one of the shortest Games in history. 

Generally, Games lasted anywhere from two to four weeks. That Games had been over in one and a half. 

There was a balance, Greg reckoned. The Gamemakers wanted to stretch the Games out for as long as they possibly could, without losing the audience’s interest. In the Capitol, interest was a fickle thing. It only lasted for so long. 

Often, they found, it wasn’t much longer than four weeks. At the four week mark, the Gamemakers would resort to dirty, almost low-down tricks to kill off the Tributes as quickly and brutally as they could, in an effort to maintain audience interest and enjoyment. 

Not that it was particularly enjoyable for those watching in the Districts. 

Greg sighed, throwing himself to his feet. Into battle, he supposed. 

Out in the kitchen, breakfast had already been served. There was a place set for him, next to Suzie. 

The other Tribute herself was completely silent, as were both Dimmock and Calypso. Today, the escort had dressed herself in a hot pink pantsuit, and bright purple hair, as well as lips covered in some sort of cherry red substance that made it almost look like she was bleeding from her mouth.

Both Suzie and Dimmock were just picking at their food. 

The weight of the day was hanging over the table, a tense sort of silence that had Greg nervous to say anything whatsoever. Over the table, Dimmock was looking at him, then glancing away, his eyes dark and expression unknowable. 

He didn’t look like he was drunk, but it certainly seemed a near enough thing. Greg knew that the other man was good at hiding it by now. 

‘So,’ Calypso said, clearing her throat. ‘Are you nervous?’ 

No-one replied. 

‘Suzie?’ she prompted, quietly. 

The platinum blonde looked up from where she was picking at her pastry, at the escort, and shrugged. ‘I guess.’ 

‘And you, Gregory?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg replied, his voice still a little hoarse from sleep. He swallowed, then took a sip of juice from his cup. ‘Yeah, I guess,’ he went on. ‘But you know, what happens, happens.’ 

‘That is an excellent philosophy,’ smiled Calypso. ‘You know, I have often hear that; you should accept what life throws at you.’ 

‘What if I don’t want to?’ asked Suzie, quietly angry. ‘What if I just want to go home?’ 

There was a deathly, weighty silence around the table. Calypso looked away, down at her plate, then awkwardly out the window. Greg cleared his throat, and Dimmock fiddled with his knife. 

‘Well,’ said Calypso, after a moment. ‘I… I suppose, that if you work hard enough and try your best, then you have a chance to go home.’ 

Suzie looked away, but Greg could see the slight shine of tears in her eyes. She sniffed, then took a deep breath. 

‘You don’t understand,’ she whispered, ‘You will never understand!’ 

Her voice got progressively louder. 

‘You think if you tell me that it’s going to make it better! You know as well as I now do that you, your people, you’ve condemned me to death and it’s not fair!’ 

Suzie shot to her feet, her hands tugging agitatedly at her hair. 

‘I miss my Mum, and I miss my house and my cat and my friends. I just want to go home. And I can’t.’ 

‘Suzie,’ whispered Calypso, as if she could barely understand what it was that the twelve-year-old was saying. 

‘No!’ Suzie shot back. ‘Just shut up! You’re so… you’re so dumb! You have no idea what it’s like! I have to go into that Arena and I’m going to die and I don’t want to die!’ 

With that, she stormed off. 

Across the table, Dimmock cleared his throat, awkwardly. Calypso looked like she was about to cry, herself, dabbing carefully at the corners of her eyes gently with a tissue. 

‘She’s right, you know,’ Greg said, almost conversationally. ‘Calypso, you don’t understand. For us, it is a death sentence. No District Ten tribute has won a Games since Dimmock, and that was nearly twenty years ago. For us, going into that Arena, we have no chance. 

‘You see this all as a game. You named it the Hunger _Games_ , after all. Well… I don’t mean you, personally. But I do mean that you don’t really understand. You don’t know the worry and the fear that we have to go through on a daily basis. Your life isn’t hard the way that ours is. Was.’

‘I know,’ whispered Calypso. 

There was another silence. Dimmock still was shifting awkwardly in his seat. 

‘Maybe… maybe I should go after her,’ said Calypso. 

Greg shook his head. ‘No. You’ll only make it worse.’ 

‘I’ll go,’ said Dimmock. ‘I think I know what to say to her, anyway.’ 

‘Are you sure?’ asked Greg, just about to get up from his seat to go talk to the other Tribute anyway. 

‘Yeah. I don’t think you going is a good idea, either.’ 

‘Probably not, no,’ acknowledged Greg. 

‘Though,’ said Dimmock, pausing just before entering the hallway, ‘Suzie told me something. Last night. She said that you had been talking to Mycroft Holmes yesterday in the Training Centre.’ 

Greg swallowed, nervously. Did Dimmock know?

Impossible. Greg wasn’t even sure what it was that Dimmock could know. It wasn’t like he really knew, either, himself. 

‘Just…’ Dimmock sighed. ‘Be careful. I warned you about him.’ 

‘Yeah, I know,’ replied Greg. ‘But I can handle myself.’ 

‘Alright,’ Dimmock nodded, in agreement, before exiting the room, heading down the hall to talk to Suzie. 

‘Mycroft Holmes?’ asked Calypso, raising an eyebrow. ‘Isn’t he the one… that Career?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Greg, before getting up himself, and leaving, to forestall any further questions. 

***

Down in the Training Centre, the overwhelming sense of tension and fear, and nervousness, swamped twenty out of the twenty-four Tributes. They were all packed into a large room, with uncomfortable, tin benches dotted around the place. 

Suzie sat next to him, her tears dried, and her composure as serious and sure as he had ever seen it. It was clear from her small frame that she was still rather angry with him. 

But Greg couldn’t let that distract him. 

Looking around the room, he saw that the Career pack was huddled into a big group in the corner, their heads together. They seemed to be discussing something in lowered tones. Well, not discussing. It sounded like Mycroft was telling the rest of them something. 

Every so often, Moriarty spoke, but it was quickly overridden by Mycroft himself, who was speaking in low and rapid tones. 

Greg took a deep breath, and drew his mind away, almost forcefully, from the other Tribute. He had bigger things to focus on. 

Closer to him than the Career pack was the Tributes from Six and Seven. They were each practically humming with anxiety, their frames stiff and tense. The girl from Six was twitching, and fiddling with the hem of her shirt, and the boy next to her had his eyes closed, and his hands flicking back and forth in some sort of memorised, practiced motion. 

It reminded Greg that he hadn’t yet come up with a plan as to what he was going to do. He knew that by the time the Gamemakers got to watching what he had to do, they wouldn’t be paying much attention anymore. And he knew that he would have to do something truly outstanding, just to get noticed. 

It was, also, the only chance he had to follow up his performance at the Opening Ceremony. The sponsors, thanks to Clara, had gotten a good look at him, but now he had to follow it up with an equally impressive score that would attract even more sponsors. 

It was going to be no easy feat. 

Each tribute was scored out of 12. Generally, it was extremely rare to get a score above ten. And only Careers ever did it. 

Usually, Tributes from District Ten achieved no more than seven. At least he wasn’t like the District Twelve tributes, who rarely scored above two.

So, what is it that he should do? What stunts could he pull, in the Training Centre, that would impress the Gamemakers enough to give him a score that was respectable? A score that would earn him sponsors? 

He had no idea, to be perfectly honest. 

He could show off his knife skills. He could hit a few targets. Maybe he could even use the swords, see where he could get with that. 

Suddenly, there was the harsh sound of metal on metal, as a door on the far side of the room opened. Immediately, all chatter ceased, and all eyes turned to look at the man who entered. 

He was dressed simply, in a black shirt and slacks. His hands were gloved, and he had a slightly imperious look on his face. Just over his shoulder, the Training Centre’s familiar set-up could be seen. 

‘Good morning, Tributes,’ he greeted. ‘The Gamemakers will see District One’s female tribute first; Irene Adler.’ 

Irene, the tall, leggy, dark haired beauty with cheekbones that looked like they could cut steel stood, and walked over to the man. 

Casting a single glance back into the room, her eyes swept over the rest of them judgmentally, before settling briefly on Greg. She smirked, her eyes flashing, before turning and walking ahead of the attendant. 

The attendant seemed to stumble a little, and quickly moved to follow her out into the Training Centre. The door slid shut immediately after them. 

Chatter in the room started up once more, the Career pack down a member. Greg kept his eyes fixed on the door, wishing he could see right through it, and into the room, to watch Irene.

None of the Careers had done anything serious in the Training Centre in the last few days. They had just hung around the edges, in a group, talking amongst themselves. The only time Greg had seen one of them break away was when Mycroft came over to do the puzzle station next to his. 

In that room, just a few metres over, the Career would be doing _something._ Something impressive, no doubt, that would earn her an extremely high score and give the Gamemakers some sort of idea of what she could do. What she was capable of. 

Greg was certain that was a lot. A terrifyingly huge amount. 

Taking a deep breath, Greg closed his eyes. The time was ticking by at such a slow rate, it was unbearable. It felt like they were moving through honey, and—

The door slid open again. 

Greg looked up in surprise, seeing the attendant come back through. 

‘That was quick,’ he commented, aloud. The boy from District Four snorted before he could help himself. 

Immediately, the eyes of the three Careers remaining locked onto them. 

Janine sniffed in disgust, her lip curling. Moriarty just looked, cocking his head to the side. 

But Mycroft. Mycroft’s eyes were reserved solely for Greg. 

The corner of those familiar lips, the ones that had begun to haunt Greg’s dreams (and his fantasies… but he wasn’t going to admit that) twisted up. 

‘Ahem,’ coughed the attendant, almost awkwardly. ‘The District One male Tribute; Mycroft Holmes.’ 

With all the grace of a cat, Mycroft got to his feet, and gilded through the door to the Training Centre. The attendant once again followed in a Tribute’s wake, as the door closed behind him with a final slam. 

Greg let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. Next to him, Suzie was looking up at Greg’s face in curiosity. 

‘What was that?’ she hissed at him, her curiosity overcoming her anger with him, if even for just a brief moment. 

Greg was sorry to admit that he had no idea how to answer that question. He didn’t even know the answer himself. 

Instead, Greg stood, and begun to pace. His hands folded behind his back, Greg began to move back and forth in the room, weaving between the benches, and back. The other Tributes spared him a glance, before going back to their own previously scheduled staring blankly and fidgeting nervously. It made Greg wish he was in a room just by himself. 

Anything would be better than this. 

At least he wouldn’t be last. 

As ever, whenever he had a moment to himself, Greg’s mind turned to John. It had been about six days, now, and he had no idea how John was going. He hadn’t been sleeping well, without the familiar weight of that small body pressing against his side, and he wondered, briefly, if John was feeling the same. 

Offhandedly, he also wondered how the farm was getting on. Were the cattle being fed? Were the eggs and meat and things being taken to market, and the rest handed over to the Peacekeepers? 

Was John being fed? Was Sally looking after him?

It was torturous, not knowing. 

‘I don’t understand.’ 

Greg jolted, at the sound of a soft, lilting voice with an unrecognisable accent coming from beside him. He looked over to realise that Moriarty had stepped up beside him, and was matching him pace for pace.

Up close, Greg realised that the other Tribute was actually quite short. His frame was small, and wiry, and his face was angular and snake-like in appearance. His eyes were small, and beady, and focused on Greg’s face with an almost disturbing amount of focus. 

Greg swallowed. 

‘I don’t understand what he sees in you,’ Moriarty commented. 

‘Who?’ asked Greg, stupidly. 

‘The Iceman,’ Moriarty replied, rolling his tongue over the words. It came off his tongue sickly sweet, reminding Greg so strongly of a snake’s hiss that it was not longer funny. 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Greg, gruffly, picking up his speed to outpace the shorter Career. It didn’t work. 

‘You are so… boring. So _ordinary._ There is nothing about you that makes you special.’ 

‘Thanks,’ Greg muttered, ‘Appreciate it, mate.’ 

‘Oooh, the puppy has bite!’ Moriarty laughed, in delight. 

Greg didn’t quite know how to reply to that, so he just picked up his pace. They were now basically jogging around the perimeter of the room, drawing the attention of the other Tributes. 

‘Perhaps,’ hissed Moriarty, ‘Perhaps you aren’t as boring as you appear.’

‘Mmm,’ hummed Greg, noncommittally. 

‘I don’t know,’ Moriarty seemed to be musing, to himself. ‘I think you’re as boring as every one of these little peasants. As boring as your little _girlfriend_ over there.’ 

Greg gritted his teeth. The Career was just trying to annoy him. 

‘Oh, perhaps not,’ said Moriarty. ‘No, I don’t think so. You don’t go in for that sort of thing… that sort of _gender_ , do you?’ 

‘No,’ continued Moriarty. ‘No, you’re more of a cock slut, aren’t you?’ 

Greg balled his fists at his sides, willing himself not to react. 

‘I can say I sympathise,’ said Moriarty, after a moment. ‘Girls… they’re just so delicate. So easily broken.’ 

Greg found the confidence in himself, with that line, to halt. Moriarty didn’t see it coming, and continued on a distance before stopping. Greg forced a bubble of laughter out from his throat.

All the other Tributes turned to look at them. ‘I have a friend,’ said Greg, between laughs, ‘who would murder you if she ever heard that. And I can tell you right now, she is entirely capable of it.’ 

‘I doubt that,’ sniffed Moriarty.

‘I don’t,’ said Greg. ‘Sally has a mean right hook. Little thing like you, she’d crush you like an ant.’ 

With that, Greg turned on his heel and stepped away, taking a seat back next to Suzie. Suzie was looking at him, one eyebrow raised. 

Greg didn’t respond. 

More time trickled past. Greg got up a few more times, wandering around, but every time, just settled back next to Suzie. 

His thoughts turned to the conversation he had just had.

Moriarty didn’t seem like he had been particularly affected by it, leaning against a wall and flicking dirt from under his fingernails. Next to him, Janine was doing the same. 

Why had Moriarty approached him? Had Mycroft put him up to it, that moment before he went into the Training Centre? 

And speaking of Mycroft, what the hell was happening in there? It had to have been at least an hour by now, and there was nothing. Irene had barely been in there for twenty minutes, but Mycroft had taken much longer. 

Just as Greg thought that, there came a scraping of the metal door. 

It slid open to permit the same attendant entrance. 

Again, he cleared his throat. 

‘District Two female Tribute; Janine Hawkins.’ 

Janine pushed off the wall, flicking her dark locks over her shoulder. The curls bounced, as she stepped through into the training centre. The attendant again, hurried after her. 

Janine was only in there for about ten minutes, before the attendant came in and called for Moriarty. 

On his way through, Moriarty gave Greg a little wave, twisting his fingers and his lips, before disappearing. Beside him, Suzie twitched. 

This continued, each Tribute taking on average around twenty minutes, before the attendant was back. 

No one had taken as long as Mycroft had, and it made Greg wonder what it was that the other Tribute had done that had taken so long. Maybe he had ripped the entire Training Centre apart, ripped it to shreds so badly that they had needed time to clean up the mess. 

It sent his mind racing. What was it that Mycroft could have done it achieve that? And was that even the truth? Maybe he had done something so impressive that the Gamemakers had him repeating it over and over again, just to impress them again and again and again. 

Greg honestly had no idea. 

Soon, they were down to just the last three districts’ Tributes left in the room. Just him, Suzie, two boys who looked like they were still seriously undernourished, and two girls fidgeting nervously. 

Somehow, they had all spread out, each taking his or her own bench and sitting there, shoulders hunched, visibly shaking. 

‘District Ten male Tribute; Gregory Lestrade.’ 

Greg got to his feet. Something about this felt quite surreal, actually, as if they weren’t experiencing real life, and this was instead some sort of hazy, fevered dream. 

Greg knew it wasn’t, no matter how much he might wish that it was. 

Following the attendant into the room, Greg immediately heard the door slide shut behind him. Blinking a few times to adjust to the brighter lights, Greg took a good look around the room. The balcony, that he had noticed before, was no longer empty. Up there stood a few men and women, all dressed in smart suits. 

At the head of the group there was an older man, his face almost kindly looking. He was round, and pot bellied, and had a small set of spectacles on the end of his nose. The Head Gamemaker. 

He was the only one watching the Training Centre. The rest of the Gamemakers were chatting amongst themselves, drinking, and laughing, and Greg could feel a certain anger begin to boil under his skin. 

Taking a deep breath to focus, just as his father had taught him, he looked around the room. On the far side of the room was the knife throwing station. 

Greg made a beeline for that, picking up the knives that felt the best in his hands, well weighted and balanced for throwing. Then, he turned to the targets. 

There were four silicone bodies propped up on stands near the wall. Yesterday, he had thrown the knives near enough to the bodies, now, all he had to do was hit them. 

Greg let the silence his father had instilled into him wash over his mind. The weight of the knife in his grip was as familiar to him as the sound of his own voice, and it was enough. 

Drawing his arm back, Greg threw. 

_Thunk!_

The knife sunk into the dummy’s face, right between where the eyes would have been. 

Greg quickly switched over to one of the other daggers, drawing his hand back and tossing it. 

_Thunk!_

He could lose himself in the rhythm of this quite easily. 

So, he did. He threw with aimed, practiced, and perfect precision, the movements bringing him back a few days. Back to when he had killed that dog for Henry Knight, and had later told John about it. 

He could still remember the cold line of the blade pressed against his cheek that night. 

He wondered if John had gotten to see the wild dog. 

Greg hoped he had. 

Back to the task at hand. 

The dummies were now peppered with holes in various places, shoulders, between the eyes, in the chest, right over the heart. Stepping back, Greg regarded his work with contentment. The knife rack was empty - he had used them all, even the badly balanced ones. And every one had hit its target. 

That had to have impressed them. 

Greg turned to look up at the balcony. 

Only the Head Gamemaker was watching him. His small spectacles had been pushed a little further up his face, his small eyes looking down at Greg in curiosity. 

The rest of the Gamemakers were still chatting amongst themselves, their voices almost obnoxiously loud in the silence of the room. They had now brought out food, and were picking away at small snacks while they spoke amongst one another 

Greg could feel the anger, simmering at the bottom of his stomach. 

Gritting his teeth, Greg turned, looking for inspiration. 

There. 

On the far wall, there was what looked like a projector of some sort. It was like the one that was a little way down, at the end of a long chamber. Greg had seen it used before, in training a few days ago. One of the District Four Tributes, a hulking mass of meat that had named himself as Sebastian Moran, had used it and an axe to practice on moving, holographic targets. 

This one, Greg realised, would fill the whole room. 

Quickly, he stepped over to where there was a selection of swords, hanging on the wall. There were five, a long rapier, a curved katana, a broadsword, a smaller, skinnier sword, and a blade that looked like some sort of cutlass. 

Greg chose the broadsword. It looked the most like something he was used to using. 

Testing the weight and the balance of it in his hand, Greg flipped it a few times, and took a long stroke to test it out. Up on the balcony, the Gamemakers were still chatting away. 

Greg realised he was still holding one of the daggers in his hand. Shrugging, he tucked it into his belt, and turned to the projector. 

It looked like it was simple to use. A small screen was set up underneath the projector, with what looked like a few settings set up underneath it. 

Greg didn’t have time to mess around with settings. 

He chose default. 

_‘Move to the centre of the room,’_ said a soft voice, quietly. 

Greg did as he was told. 

The weight of the familiar weapon in his hand was grounding. It focused him, and his energy, to the task ahead. 

_‘The program will begin in three._

_‘Three,_

_‘Two,_

_‘One.’_

Everything stopped. Greg could feel his every breath in his throat. The lights in the Training Centre dimmed, and brilliant lasers began to flick up and down, through the room. 

Suddenly, a figure materialised not ten metres away from where Greg was standing. 

Greg turned, raising the sword instinctively, and charged. 

From there it was simple. Almost too simple. Ghostly figures charged at him, and he swiped through their chests, through their necks; stabbed and slashed his way through the program. 

He was light on his feet, a ghost of movement and sound, flashing between the bodies. It felt like the culmination of everything his father had ever taught him, and a validation, of sorts. 

He was going to survive, for as long as he could. 

He was going to fight, and fight damned hard. He was going to show John that Gregory Lestrade was a survivor, he was a warrior. He was going to show his soldier what it meant to _live._

And if Mycroft Holmes consumed him in the end, so be it. 

For now, he couldn’t think of a better way to go. 

_‘Stop.’_

The lights raised back to their original brightness. Greg blinked, his eyes readjusting, the sword coming to settle next to him. 

He had been a flurry of movement, for a good four minutes, and now, stopping. His head was still racing, his breath coming in short, harsh pants. He had managed to work his way around in a circle, his body still as taut as a bowstring. Tight enough to be ready to attack again, if need be. 

That must have impressed them. 

Turning, Greg looked up at the balcony. 

The Head Gamemaker was still the only one still looking at him. However, the man was smiling, and as Greg watched, raised his slim champagne flute to him. Greg nodded, in return, but the anger was back. 

How dare they? 

How dare they be preoccupied? Here he was, trying to do his damnedest to fight hard, show what he was capable of, so he could get some sponsors and survive. And these people, these spoilt Capitol citizens, were disregarding him and turning their backs to him. 

It made him angry. So angry. 

Greg didn’t think he’d ever been this angry in his life. If this was the way Sally felt all the time, no wonder she was the way that she was. This was almost unbearable anger. He was almost sick with the anger boiling in the pit of his stomach. 

Greg dropped the sword, letting it rattle on the floor next to him. He drew the dagger from his belt, its familiar weight grounding in his hand, and steeling his resolve for what he was going to do next. 

Out of the corner of his eye, just as he raised the dagger and drew it back, he saw the Head Gamemaker once more. The rotund man was watching him, carefully, his expression unreadable. 

When he caught Greg’s glance, he began to smile, his eyes turning up cheekily. His smile was as if he was letting Greg in on a secret, and he tapped the side of his nose, only reinforcing this. 

Then, the most telling of all, the Head Gamemaker tipped his head in the direction of his colleagues, clustered in the corner around the table. In particular, his eyes flicked to one man, who was wearing a sort of cape, that billowed behind him every time he turned. 

Another twitch of his eyes, and his lips, and Greg felt the anger that was previously blinding him slip away. The humour of the whole situation, and what it was that he was about to do came through, and it loosened up his muscles, relaxing his shoulders. 

Now he knew he was going to hit. He knew he was going to hit his target. 

With a final tap on the nose from the Head Gamemaker, Greg stopped. He froze, in the space between one heartbeat and the next. 

The Gamemaker, the one with the ridiculous cape, turned. His cape billowed out behind him, and Greg threw. 

The dagger sailed through the air, its trajectory smooth, and straight, and flew right over the balcony, between the group of Gamemakers, and straight into cape man’s billowing cape. It snagged the cape, piercing right through it up to the guard, and then ripped it backwards. With a distinct _thunk,_ the dagger buried itself in the wood panelling behind the Gamemakers. It pinned the caped man down, leaving him hanging, awkwardly strangled and struggling to breathe, on the wall behind the balcony. 

All the other Gamemakers were staring with wide eyes. A few had stumbled back, knocking over a bowl of juice, sending it crashing to the ground in a haze of liquid and glass. 

Above him, the Head Gamemaker let out a bellowing laugh, as the rest of the Gamemakers tried to pick themselves up and dust themselves off, as well as the rest of the sparkling shards and dark liquid stains spreading on their fine clothes. 

The Head Gamemaker had begun to clap, looking down at Greg with a smile. 

Greg returned the grin, tousling his hair a little. 

‘Thank you,’ he said, sarcastically, before turning on one heel, and heading for the door opposite the one he had come in through. 

It slid open for him, allowing him through, and into the hallway beyond, before grinding shut once more.

Only then did Greg permit himself to laugh, remembering the stunned, shocked looks on the Gamemakers faces when Greg had thrown that dagger. It was unbelievable. 

‘What are you laughing about?’ asked Dimmock, suspiciously, from beside him. 

Greg jumped. ‘Oh, don’t do that!’ 

‘Why are you laughing, Greg? What have you done?’ 

‘Don’t worry,’ said Greg, ‘It’s fine.’ 

‘I don’t think so,’ Dimmock shot back. ‘You are the first Tribute I have met who has come out of a Gamemakers’ assessment _laughing._ So unless you tell me what you did, I’m going to assume it was something bad and kill you myself. You won’t even have to wait for the Arena.’ 

‘Hilarious, Dimmock,’ replied Greg. ‘Come on. I want to go back.’ 

‘We have to wait for Suzie,’ sighed Dimmock. 

***

Suzie came out, about ten minutes later, a satisfied look on her face. 

‘How do you think you went?’ asked Dimmock, looking at her. 

‘Alright,’ she replied. 

‘Oh?’ asked Greg. ‘What did you do?’ 

‘Just set a few fires. Showed what I could do with the swords, and stuff. But it was strange…’ 

She trailed off. 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Greg, already sure he knew what she was about to say. 

‘Well, they all looked quite white, when I walked in,’ replied Suzie. ‘Half of them looked like they’d just taken a swim in something sticky and pink. And one… one was wearing a torn cape.’ 

‘Strange,’ hummed Greg, noncommittally, as they headed for the elevators back up to their floor. 

‘Greg…’ Dimmock turned to him, raising an eyebrow. ‘You’re only worrying me further.’ 

‘It doesn’t matter, Dimmock, I’ll tell you later.’ 

‘What did you do then, Greg?’ asked Suzie, quietly. 

‘Oh, you know,’ he said, ‘just threw a few knives at some of the targets. Then I did the thing with the holograms, you know, the glowing people who act like real humans. I used a sword.’ 

‘How do you think you went?’ asked Dimmock, still suspicious. 

‘I don’t know,’ replied Greg, honestly. ‘I suppose we’ll have to wait and find out.’ 

‘I don’t like that, Greg,’ said Dimmock. ‘I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.’ 

They had arrived at their floor, Dimmock letting them pass into the living room and sit on the couches 

He took a seat on one of the armchairs, leaning forward to rest his chin on his palms. 

‘Oh,’ Greg remembered, ‘Who was that man, the Head Gamemaker?’ 

‘That?’ asked Dimmock, ‘Oh, that’s Mike Stamford. He’s the Head Gamemaker this year. Difficult job, that. President Magnussen keeps killing ‘em.’ 

‘Nice,’ commented Greg. 

‘Yeah,’ said Dimmock. ‘He’s a fair man. And smart. He knows what he’s doing when it comes to the Games.’ 

‘That’s good, I guess,’ said Greg. ‘He paid a lot of attention to me.’ 

‘Excellent,’ said Dimmock. ‘Well, if the both of you got at least four, I can work with that. I can get you both sponsors, I think. Especially if we pull off the interviews tomorrow night.’ 

‘Oh yeah,’ said Greg, ‘I remember, they are tomorrow. Do we have a plan, or something?’ 

Dimmock looked at Greg as if to say, _well, obviously._

‘Of course we have a plan,’ replied Dimmock. ‘The plan is to make you look as good and sound as good as possible.

‘Suzie, tomorrow night, you’re going to need to play up the young, cute thing. Venus has a beautiful dress for you, very princess-like.’ 

Suzie nodded, in quiet determination.

‘And you, Greg, I think we can get out the handsome card. If we work very hard.’ 

‘Oi!’

Dimmock smirked. ‘And, we need to make sure you know what to say. The Capitol loves a handsome, well-spoken one. And you have the whole rugged thing going for you.’ 

‘Thanks… I think…’ mumbled Greg. 

Beside him, Suzie leant forwards to grab a piece of fruit from the bowl in the centre of the coffee table. 

‘Are the results getting released soon?’ she asked. 

‘In a few hours,’ Dimmock replied, just as Calypso fluttered in through the door. 

‘Wonderful news,’ she flounced over to them, ‘I’ve already heard rumblings that the both of you have scored well. Oh, I’m so proud of the both of you!’ 

‘Thanks,’ replied Greg. Suzie smiled, slightly, beside him. 

‘So, Suzie dear,' said Calypso, kindly, 'Why don’t you give us the run down of what you did?’ 

‘Oh,’ said Suzie, sitting more upright. ‘Well, let’s see. When I went in, I went straight for the fire-lighting station. And I lit my fire first try, too, and I did it very quickly. It was great!’ 

Her eyes were lighting up, sparkling in pride and happiness at her own achievement. Greg smiled as well, happy to see that she wasn’t letting the whole situation beat her down. He knew she was still upset with him, but it seemed to have dulled down a bit. 

‘And then, after that, I went and took one of the swords, and hacked away at a dummy for a little while, until I got tired.’ 

‘That’s good,’ Calypso praised, before turning to Greg. ‘And you? What did you do, Greg?’ 

‘Oh… I… um…’ Greg took a breath. ‘Well, when I went in, they weren’t really watching me—‘ 

‘Really?’ interrupted Suzie, ‘They watched me really well. If I didn’t know better, I would have guessed they had just seen a ghost!’ 

‘Mmm,’ Greg hummed. ‘Well, I went in, and I went for the daggers and things, and took them up to do a bit of throwing practice. It went well, but they still weren’t really paying attention. Except for the Head Gamemaker. He was watching. 

‘Anyway, after that, I went for the holograms, and used a broadsword to slice them up a bit. That was fun.’

‘That’s good,’ said Dimmock, ‘The sponsors always love a good old-fashioned sword user.’ 

‘Yeah, I guess,’ replied Greg. ‘But… they still weren’t really watching me. 

‘So… so…’ Suddenly, Greg was roiling with nerves. He wasn’t sure whether he should tell Dimmock. Knowing the man, he would fly off the rails. 

Taking a steeling breath, Greg confessed. ‘So I threw a dagger at one of them.’ 

‘You did WHAT?!’ 


	9. Touch

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dimmock, shaking his head back and forth. ‘I thought… you can’t possibly have just said that you threw a _dagger_ at the Gamemakers. Surely you aren’t that stupid…’ 

‘Sorry to disappoint,’ replied Greg, ‘But that is what I just said.’ 

‘Oh goodness,’ said Calypso. Across from him, Dimmock was still blinking, disbelievingly. 

‘Did you really?’ asked Suzie.

‘Yep,’ Greg replied. ‘I threw a dagger right up into the group of them, and you know the one with the ripped cape? It was because I’d thrown a dagger right through his cape and pinned it to the wall.’ 

Suzie let out a peal of laughter.

‘You should have seen his face,’ chortled Greg, ‘He was so shocked, hanging there on the wall like a poster pinned to a fence.’ 

Suzie was grinning. Even Calypso was smiling. 

But Dimmock’s face had settled on thunderous. Greg looked over at the coach, and flinched at what he saw. Dimmock’s face was dark, his brow heavy over his eyes. 

‘Sorry, Dimmock,’ Greg tried, shrugging. ‘I couldn’t help it. I got angry. And… to be fair — that Head Gamemaker; Mike Stamford. He encouraged me.’

‘Oh… great… Great,’ grunted Dimmock. ‘That, right there, _doesn’t_ make me feel any better. Greg, do you understand what you’ve done? You’ve endangered your chances of getting any sort of good score. Do you understand that? 

‘You’ve made them angry, Lestrade. Undoubtably. And your score is going to suffer for it. You’re not going to get any sponsors, and your chances at surviving are going to fall dramatically. Do you understand that? And you did it all, just for some stupid _prank!’_

There was deadly silence in the room. Calypso looked awkwardly out the window, at the city. The sun was setting just beyond the horizon. 

‘I’m sorry,’ tried Greg, quietly. ‘I was trying. I tried my best. But nothing I could do would make them watch me. They were just so damn _preoccupied._ I couldn’t stand it. 

‘I worked my arse off and all they could do was stand around, drinking and chatting. I know they decide what score I get. I know that’s gonna determine my future in the Arena. But I was just… I wasn’t thinking, I suppose.’ 

‘I can tell,’ grunted Dimmock. ‘Well, I hope that you haven’t angered them enough to make them give you a one, or a two. Knowing them, they have. Knowing them, Lestrade, you’ve made them so angry they’ll go after you in the Arena, as well. If you’re not killed off in the first hour, that is.’ 

‘Dimmock,’ said Calypso, quietly. ‘Don’t worry.’ 

‘How can I not worry?’ demanded Dimmock, waving a hand over at Greg. ‘He’s done something stupid, and he’s the one who’s going to have to pay for it, and _I_ have to stand by and watch him.’ 

Greg looked down at his feet. 

He wanted to say many things. He wanted to point out that it wasn’t about Dimmock. It was about him. He would hold the burden of the decision he made when he tossed that dagger. Fine. Just… Dimmock was taking on responsibility for something over which he had no control. 

It didn’t even matter, not really. If the Gamemakers gave him a bad score, so be it. He would show what he was capable of in the Arena. 

‘I think it’s cool,’ said Suzie, quietly, from beside him. Greg looked up in shock. Out of them all, he was most surprised that she had said something. She was still angry with him, after all. 

Greg looked at her. ‘Does this mean you forgive me?’ 

‘No,’ she replied, still quiet. ‘No, I don’t. I wish you hadn’t told me. But I still think that it’s cool. And you made sure they would pay attention to me, and the other Tributes who went after us. They needed the attention the most, I reckon.’ 

‘I agree,’ replied Greg, unwilling to admit that thought hadn’t even crossed his mind when he had done it. All that had mattered at the time was making them watch him. Making them see what he could do. So he could survive, as long as he possibly could. 

‘Dimmock,’ placated Calypso. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. We haven’t seen the results yet.’ 

‘When are they being released?’ asked Suzie, softly. 

‘Soon,’ replied Calypso. ‘I think in about an hour.’ 

‘Can we eat something before then?’ 

The conversation devolved from there, deciding on and requesting food. Greg got up when Suzie prompted him, heading over to the table to take his seat. Next to him, Suzie spoke quietly to Dimmock. 

‘What score do you think I’ll get?’ she asked him. 

Dimmock shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. 

‘I hope I get at least a five,’ said Suzie, quietly. 

‘I’m sure you will, dear,’ commented Calypso, just as the food came in through the door. 

Greg picked at the food laid down in front of him, staying resolutely silent. Over the table, Dimmock was eating, but he was taking tiny bites, and ensuring he had a moment between each bite that he took just to look up from the table and glare at Greg, angrily. 

Every time, Greg just rolled his eyes. 

‘I don’t think you’re taking this as seriously as you should,’ Dimmock commented. Greg bit his lip. 

‘I know,’ he said, ‘And I know what you feel about it. I just think… I dunno. I just wanted to make a statement.’ 

‘And that’s the problem. You said you wanted to survive, Lestrade. This isn’t very conducive to that. Your actions aren’t very conducive to that. You tried to tell me that you want to keep going for as long as you possibly can, for your little boy at home. How the _hell_ is making statements surviving?’ 

‘I dunno,’ replied Greg. ‘Can we drop this?’ 

‘No,’ said Dimmock, ‘We can’t. You need to listen to me, Lestrade. Otherwise this ain’t gonna work. And I don’t just mean now. I mean in the Arena as well.’ 

‘Can you send us messages?’ interrupted Suzie. 

‘No,’ said Dimmock. ‘But I can _not_ send you anything.’ 

‘What does that mean?’ asked Suzie. 

‘Don’t worry about it,’ grunted Dimmock, shoving his plate away. ‘I’ll tell you later. I’m too angry to talk about it right now.’ 

‘I said I was sorry, alright!’ burst Greg, slamming his cutlery down on the table. Calypso fluttered her hands. ‘I said I was sorry. Now can you please quit it! I know what I did was wrong, I know it was impulsive. But I didn’t think it through. There, I admit it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just did it.’ 

Dimmock leaned back in his chair, looking almost satisfied. Greg wanted to punch him, suddenly. In fact, he seriously considered doing it, until he realised his impulsive decisions were what got him into this situation in the first place. 

Taking a deep breath, Greg also leaned back. Greg Lestrade was nothing if not patient. Letting out his sigh through his nose, Greg ruffled a hand through his grey hair. 

‘At least you know when you’ve made a mistake,’ said Dimmock. Suzie fiddled with her napkin. 

Then, out in the living room, the tele screen flicked on, lighting up a bright blue, and blaring out a fanfare through the floor, into the dining room. Calypso leapt up. 

‘That’s the sign!’ she announced, almost relieved. ‘They’re going to announce the results now, I’m sure of it!’ 

Quickly, she fluttered into the next room, Suzie scraping her own chair back, and following quickly in her footsteps. 

Dimmock shot one last glare over the table, then left as well, leaving Greg behind to take a final bite of the chicken he had been picking at, before following the coach and the other Tribute into the living room. 

Inside, everyone was already comfortably situated, Calypso perfectly upright in one of the wing-back chairs, Suzie on the lounge comfortably, and Dimmock taking up another of the armchairs. All three were resolutely studying the screen, not looking Greg’s direction at all. 

Quietly, Greg made his own way over to situate himself on the arm of the sofa, leaning back on the heel of one hand. 

On the screen, the Capitol emblem was projected, a dark grey thing of harsh lines and blocky text. It spun, slowly, playing out the Capitol anthem through the room. Then, it faded away, opening to Caesar Flickerman shifting his notes about a little, before grinning at the camera obsequiously. 

_‘Hello citizens, District and Capitol. And good evening, of course, to our wonderful Tributes, who are eagerly watching this broadcast along with us! Thank you for tuning in tonight—‘_

‘As if we had a choice,’ muttered Greg. 

_‘—and we have a great show coming up for you. Firstly, I think we should give a more detailed profile into each of our characters this year, wonderful, wonderful, and then we shall reveal the scores of the Gamemakers’ assessment. Remember, people, the importance of this moment cannot be understated! Sponsors, out there, looking for the tributes they want to sponsor this year; listen closely to the scores!’_

_‘Grand, just grand,’_ continued Caesar, his opening remarks all blending together into a mindless drone in the back of Greg’s ear. Greg appraised the man on the screen quietly. He was wearing a deep navy wig, neatly curled and primped around his almost orange-looking face. The suit he wore matched the hair colour he had chosen, as did his eyebrows. 

Greg couldn’t remember a time before Caesar was doing this; commenting and hosting the Hunger Games. He commented on the costumes on the Opening Night, gave out the results, held interviews with the Tributes on his show, announced the deaths on television, and then went on to talk to the Victor after the Games had finished. Greg thought he was rather vapid 

His first impression of the brightly coloured host was a typical Capitol citizen. The man had no idea what was really happening. He lacked the understanding of suffering. While Greg was worried about what to put on the table for dinner that night, Caesar Flickerman stood on his show and gossiped about celebrities. 

And yet, he was charismatic. There was no denying that. He helped the Tributes, or at least, tried to, during their interviews. He would deliberately seek to ask questions they could easily answer, give them prompts to answer where he could. 

_‘—So, firstly, let’s talk about the wonderful, gorgeous District One Tributes!’_ Caesar shuffled his papers, and Greg looked up at the screen, in interest. _‘Ladies first. Right. The female Tribute from District One is a lovely girl by the name of Irene Adler. Let’s see here. Eighteen years old, and she is quite the looker!’_ An image of Irene’s face flashed up on the screen. 

_‘Simply lovely. Right. Her father is Robert Adler, a famed handbag designer living in District One. But, of course, her mother is Amanda Adler, the famed musician who has come to the Capitol before to perform in operas. Irene herself is actually quite familiar with the Capitol, coming here from a young age with her mother and father…’_

Caesar continued on, making a few points of note about Irene. Behind him, her face was still flashing on screen, a moving image of her face, looped over through her pretty smile. Her lips were turned up at the corners, covered in a deep red that made Greg immediately think of blood. Additionally, she wore a black shadow around her eyes that gave them a sort of smoky look, making them appear sharp and judgemental. Her hair was perfectly coiffed around her head, as she grinned through the camera. 

Greg looked away.

_‘—so I’m sure she will be a hot contestant in the Arena. In more ways than one!’_ Piped laughter came through, at the conclusion of Caesar’s little spiel on the other Tribute. 

_‘Now,’_ he said, _‘Onto the boys. From District One, the male Tribute; Mycroft Holmes!’_

There was a brief moment, as Mycroft’s face flashed up on the screen. As ever, when he saw the other Tribute, Greg was captivated, staring at that face carefully, raking his eyes over slate grey ones. The camera wasn’t doing that dark ginger hair any favours, glossing over the highlights and darker parts of the hair, making it look almost flat, and boring. Mycroft’s regal nose wasn’t done justice either; in the shifting image, it was almost too large looking. 

But Mycroft’s hair was still curled attractively over one brow bone, and his grey eyes were still piercingly captivating. His mouth was perfectly straight and plush, and his jaw looked like it had been cut from glass. Greg took a deep breath, in through his nose, and out through his mouth. 

_‘Now this Tribute is very interesting,’_ Caesar was saying. _‘His mother, Violet Holmes, is remembered as one of the youngest Tributes to ever win a Game. She was just fourteen at the time, and won her Game by hunting down all of the other Tributes, and killing them with quite deadly rapier skills. It will be no surprise if her son hasn’t inherited the same trait, and we do, of course, look forward to seeing him demonstrate his skills._

_‘Just seventeen years old, I am certain that this Tribute is going to be a powerhouse in the Arena. Incredibly, he is also rumoured to be a very clever young man, with a lucrative job offer from President Magnussen in his personal staff already on the cards for this Tribute, provided he wins the Games. According to research we have done into his schooling, Mycroft Holmes demonstrates a truly remarkable set of skills and capabilities, particularly, it says here, as a tactician.’_ Several piped _oohs_ came through the speakers, from the live audience of the show. 

_‘So, another hot contender in the Arena, perhaps even more so than our previously discussed Tribute!’_

Greg let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding, watching the screen and listening to what Caesar had to say. It echoed in his mind, lining up with that which he already knew about the other Tribute. Mycroft was impressive. He was deadly, that much was certain. Greg was afraid for his life. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Greg spotted Dimmock, who had turned his head to watch Greg, thoughtfully. There was something in Dimmock’s eyes, something which Greg didn’t quite like, but wasn’t going to risk commenting on. 

Dimmock had something to say about it. Greg knew it. 

_‘And, onto District Two. Ladies first, the female Tribute from District Two is a lovely lady by the name of Janine Hawkins…’_

Greg tuned out the rest of what Caesar was saying, sparing a quick glance at Janine’s face. Perhaps not as striking as Irene before her, Janine still had a look about her, a pretty face and full lips. 

Instead, Greg looked over at Dimmock, who was still staring him down, and raised an eyebrow. Dimmock just shrugged, noncommittally, but his eyes were narrowed, looking Greg up and down carefully. 

Greg rolled his eyes, and looked back at the tele screen, where Caesar had moved onto Moriarty. 

_‘Interesting,’_ commented Caesar. _‘There wasn’t much we could find about this young man, other than where he comes from. It says that his father owned a gold mine, and that Jim here grew up helping him.’_

Behind him, Caesar was indicating the image of Moriarty. Moriarty himself had dark eyes, focused beadily on the camera. He was wearing an almost sickeningly sweet smile that was like Mycroft’s in that it lured people in. Unfortunately, unlike Mycroft’s, Moriarty’s smile was too sweet. Too quietly vicious. 

It made Greg sick to his stomach. It made him want to turn away in disgust, repelled him instead of drawing him in, fascinating him the way Mycroft’s had done. 

Caesar continued down the list of Tributes. To be honest, none of them stood out to Greg, not really. 

There was a comment about Henry St Clair - the District Five Tribute, who was apparently the son of the town mayor. Lara Cross, as well, from District Nine, who apparently once appeared in a Capitol movie. 

But that was about it. 

Then, of course, they reached the District Ten Tributes. 

_‘Now, from District Ten, the female Tribute, Suzie Gates,’_ said Caesar. Next to him, Greg heard Suzie sharply inhale, and sit up ramrod straight. On the screen, her face flashed up, her eyes sparkling and grinning happily. _’This lovely young lady is just twelve years old, people! Reaped at her first Reaping, and if she manages to win this year, she will be the youngest Tribute to ever win the Games! Isn’t that exciting?_

_‘Anyway, her mother is a doctor, working in District Ten, and she herself has a beautiful pet sheepdog named Octavia. Furthermore, while her father passed away some years ago, he owned a small shop that made beautiful clocks in District Ten. So, if you ever get your hands on a District Ten Gates’ Clock, then it was made by this young lady’s father! Wonderful, simply wonderful.’_

Suzie let out her breath, next to Greg, just as Greg’s own face flashed up on the screen. _‘And here we have Gregory Lestrade, the male Tribute from District Ten.’_

Greg felt a shiver jolt up his spine, as his own face flashed up on the screen. In the lighting, his grey hair was all the more obvious, particularly against his browned skin, tanned from hours and hours spent outside working on the farm. Greg immediately felt self-conscious, looking away from where he was smiling on the camera, and running a hand through his greying locks. He looked old. Too old to be in these Games, with these younger Tributes. 

_‘So, we go from a twelve year old to an eighteen year old, folks. Even though this young man may look a little older than his eighteen years, with that rather striking grey hair of his. His hair is grey, apparently, because of a little accident in his District when he was just ten.’_

How the _hell_ did they know that? How on Earth… Greg hadn’t told anyone about that. Not even Sally. 

He’d told John, once, late at night, but he was almost one hundred percent sure that John wouldn’t have told anyone. 

Unless he had been forced to. 

That was a nasty thought. 

_‘Not much information could be found about his parents. His mother was apparently a farmer, and his father appeared to have been a Peacekeeper. Both are, unfortunately, deceased.’_

Greg had to stop the laughter bubbling up in his chest. They weren’t right. His father hadn’t been a Peacekeeper. Greg’s father had been a soldier. 

_‘However, this young man has adopted a son. Another young man, a nine-year-old by the name of John Watson.’_

Greg felt like being sick, suddenly. They couldn’t know about John. They couldn’t. He wanted to run all the way back to the District, suddenly. He wanted to protect John, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t protect his own damn _son_ from the Capitol. 

He felt pinned in place, like a butterfly under glass he had seen once in a textbook. 

Biting his lip, Greg looked away, blinking back tears. 

_‘So that is something rather interesting, don’t you think? This Gregory Lestrade seems to be quite the heartthrob, young ladies. Caring, gentle, and rather handsome.’_

Next to him, Greg heard Suzie snort, and nudge him. 

‘Hear that?’ she teased. ‘You’re a heartthrob.’ 

Greg grunted, unable to respond for the emotion choking up his chest. 

He wanted to go home. 

He wanted to go home so fucking much. He just wanted to tell the Capitol to get fucked, and go home to John. Was that really so much to ask?

Apparently yes. Yes, it was. 

Greg didn’t pay any attention whatsoever to the Tributes left remaining on the list that Caesar seemed to be reading out from. It just wasn’t important. 

What was important was working out how the _hell_ the Capitol had found out that information about him. Who had talked to them? Who had told them about him?

‘Don’t bother,’ grunted Dimmock. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re both wondering how they could know all that stuff about you.’ 

‘Yeah,’ admitted Suzie, weakly. ‘It seems weird, you know. That they know about my dog and my mum and my life back in the District.’ 

‘I know,’ said Dimmock. ‘But they have so many resources, and so many spies. It’s impossible to track down who it was, and why they gave away that information.’ 

Greg looked away from the screen. 

Caesar was soon finished describing the rest of the Tributes, tapping his pages together with finality. Greg finally pulled himself out of the depths of his thoughts to look back up at the screen. 

_‘Now, of course, ladies and gentlemen, we will move on to the Tributes’ scores in the Gamemakers’ assessments. And Tributes, if you’re watching, may the odds be ever in your favour!’_

With that, Caesar disappeared from the screen, and the Capitol symbol flashed up once again. The Capitol anthem played, briefly, and Suzie shifted nervously next to Greg. 

They always went in order of worst to best. The worst scores would be shown first, going all the way from the ones, to the tens, elevens and twelves. 

Firstly, an image of the District Twelve male Tribute flashed up. Next to him, the number one appeared. Then, the male from District Six, each with a dark one next to their names. 

After that, the girls from Districts Seven and Four. Each with a bold number one next to their name. 

Greg quietly breathed out a sigh of relief. He hadn’t done that badly. 

Onto the twos. Greg wasn’t there, either, the boys from Districts Three and Nine, and the girls from Districts Five and Eight. 

Three; the boy from District Seven, and the girls from Districts Three and Four. 

Four; and Greg couldn’t believe it. After the stunt he pulled, surely he would already be there. He cast a glance over at Dimmock, who was studiously not looking at him, staring at the screen in interest. The boy from Five flashed up, as did the girl from District Eight, and Suzie. 

Suzie let out a squeal of delight, jumping up from her seat. ‘Yes!’ she chanted, pumping a fist in the air. ‘That’s good, right?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Dimmock, ‘Excellent. Very good. Well done.’ 

He was nodding, rubbing a hand on his chin, thoughtfully. 

‘Well done,’ Greg congratulated her. 

‘Well done to you, too. You’ve done really well too, clearly.’ 

‘I dunno,’ replied Greg. ‘I reckon it’ll be me next.’

Five; the male from District Eleven, and the girl from Twelve. 

The tension in the room was mounting, as Greg hadn’t been announced yet. There were fewer and fewer Tributes, this far up the scale. 

At six points, there was the boy from Eight, the girl from Six, and the girl from Nine. Still no Greg. 

Then, at seven, the boy from four.

There was no one who had eight points. Not one Tribute. 

Instead, the girl from two, Janine, flashed up, a block number nine next to her name. 

Surprising, really. Careers hardly ever scored outside the tens. Usually ten, or even eleven. 

Dimmock hummed his interest. ‘Clearly,’ he said, ‘she’s the weakest of the Careers. It’ll be easiest to pick her off.’ 

‘I suppose,’ replied Greg. It was getting to be a little unbelievable - that he had beaten a Career in points. 

Maybe he was so bad, he was going to get a zero. Or maybe he had been erased from the competition, and he was going to be collected and murdered tonight. 

He was being ridiculous. Paranoid. 

Then, Irene’s face flashed up. A big number ten was next to her name. Greg inhaled a breath through his nose. His face was the next one to pop up.And right there, next to his name, was the number ten.

Ten. 

Greg felt numb. 

Not even Dimmock had scored that high. No, Greg couldn’t even remember someone who had scored higher than he had in District Ten. 

‘Greg!’ Suzie cried, ‘You scored _ten!_ That’s amazing!’ 

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Greg grinned, casting another look at the screen just to double check. The ten next to his name hadn’t disappeared. 

On the armchair, Dimmock was looking shocked, his eyes wide. 

‘So,’ said Greg, casually, ‘I suppose my _statement_ must have paid off, then.’ 

‘It shouldn’t have,’ grunted Dimmock. ‘I stand by what I said. But congratulations, Lestrade. Somehow, you managed to not stuff it up.’ 

‘I think that’s almost a compliment,’ snarked Greg, but smiled at the genuine praise. ‘So thank you.’ 

‘Hmph,’ mumbled Dimmock, throwing himself to his feet. ‘Don’t expect too much of it.’ 

Suzie and Calypso had both flounced off into the next room, and were clearly eating something, likely something sweet, in celebration. Greg just sat back in the sofa, unwilling to move, wanting badly to see what Mycroft had scored. He had probably scored an eleven, and Greg didn’t need to see. 

He certainly wasn’t going to admit that it was because he wanted to catch a glimpse of Mycroft’s face. 

Moriarty’s face flashed up, next, with a number eleven next to his name. Dimmock grunted, clearly expecting this result. Greg just shrugged. 

Next, Mycroft’s name flashed up on the screen, as did his face. 

But next to his name, there was a large number twelve. 

There was dead silence in the room. 

Even Calypso and Suzie, at the door, were entirely silent. Dimmock was staring with wide eyes at the screen, the drink in his hand entirely forgotten. Greg sat himself more upright, staring at the screen as if the number would disappear entirely, and be replaced by something more reasonable.

‘But that’s… that’s impossible,’ whispered Dimmock. ‘No one ever gets a twelve. Never. Not even the Careers. Not even the _best_ Careers. His mother didn’t.’ 

Somehow, Greg could believe it, when the other three just couldn’t. ‘Mycroft Holmes isn’t like his mother,’ he said. ‘Mycroft Holmes… he’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.’ 

‘And how would you know?’ asked Calypso, stepping up beside him. 

‘Because I’ve had a few conversations with him.’ 

Dimmock sighed. ‘Do you ever listen to anything I tell you?’ 

Greg didn’t reply, just rubbing another hand through his hair. 

‘I don’t know. All I’m saying is that I think you haven’t heard the full story. I don’t think anyone has. When I talked to him, I got the impression that there’s so much more than just what you’ve heard whispered here and there around the place.’ 

‘ _Fuck,’_ hissed Dimmock. ‘This is bad, Lestrade. This is really bad.’ 

Greg shrugged. 

‘Lestrade, he’s going to get all the sponsors. There’ll be none left for either of you. Do you understand?’ 

‘I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,’ Greg moderated. ‘There’ll be people left over, I’m certain of it.’

‘Mycroft Holmes. He was the one who was in with the Gamemakers for ages, wasn’t he?’ asked Suzie, quietly, from by the door. 

‘Yeah,’ replied Greg. ‘He was in there for ages. I don’t know what he did. Clearly it was something really special. But he was in there for what felt like an _hour.’_

_‘_ Strange,’ commented Dimmock. ‘That’s not how they usually do it. I wonder what it was he did.’ 

‘Can we find out?’ 

Dimmock shook his had. 

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried.’

‘Alright,’ said Greg, ‘So, what’s the plan?’ 

‘We have the interviews, tomorrow. That’s going to have to be stand-out. We have to make an impression. Alright?’ 

‘I can help with that,’ said Calypso. 

Dimmock nodded his agreement. 

***

Greg made his way up to the roof in the dark, that evening. It was late at night - they had stayed up discussing strategy, and a few other things that were escaping Greg’s mind. There was a distinct nervousness, and stress, playing around the dark corners of Greg’s mind. 

The moon was covered with storm clouds, this evening. It left the small rooftop garden far darker than it had been the last time he had been up here. It also seemed to dampen the lights of the city, a little, and leave an odd taste to the air, the scent of it almost metallic and coppery. 

Greg strolled through the garden, breathing in the heavy breaths of the humid air before a storm. 

This was familiar to him. He had felt this way before, back in the District. Right before a storm blew through. 

Absently, he wondered what he would be doing before a storm like this came through the farm back home. He would, of course, have used metal stakes to pin down the chicken hutch. And the barn door, of course. 

He would have had to make sure that all the cattle were back inside, and help Sally get all hers inside as well, warm and dry and ready for the storm. Then, of course, there was the worrying about the house. 

The roof would have to be checked, make sure that there was enough proofing up there to keep out the worst of the rain. The grain would have to be carefully stored away to prevent it from getting wet and mouldy. 

After that, he would have tossed a sheet over the outhouse, and pinned it down, to stop anything from flying away in the oft-strong winds that blew through. And, of course, tying up the rope swing. 

Then, making sure that Gladstone was safely inside the house. Warmly tucked up, perhaps next to their bed. And John. 

John hated storms. He was afraid of them. He hated lightning - thought it was far too loud for him. Usually, during storms, John would curl up under the quilts next to Greg, or on Greg’s lap during the bad ones, and Greg would read him stories, quietly, or make up stories for the tiny blond. His voice would hopefully drown out the fear of thunder and lightning for the little boy. 

Then, he would hold John tightly against his chest, tight enough to protect him from the world, and John would fall asleep. 

John would snuggle up against Greg in a way that he was sometimes reluctant to do, and often wold grip onto Greg’s fingers or his shirt. Their quilts John would mound on top of them, creating a tiny, safe, warm sanctuary. A sanctuary where nothing could get in, nothing at all. It was safe, warm, cosy and happy - the perfect place to be in a storm. 

Greg realised that this was making him viciously homesick. 

Silently, he let out a breath, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the clear barrier at the edge of the roof. It was warm, and hummed with life, like the glass in a moving coach. 

‘I am not surprised you are here.’ 

The gravelly smooth tones of Mycroft’s voice drifted over the distance, to bathe Greg’s ears in their dulcet tones. Greg turned. 

He had almost been expecting Mycroft, really. ‘Do you want me to leave?’ he asked. 

Mycroft did not reply, simply stepping up to be level with Greg next to the drop off the side of the building. They lapsed into silence. 

Mycroft was wearing a different suit tonight. It was a deep navy in colour, bringing out his eyes, and the sharp contrast of his hair compared to it. His tie was neatly done, straight and even, and a tie pin clipped across it, dividing it into two. 

In one hand, he held the umbrella he had had at the Reaping. 

Greg realised they were close again. 

He didn’t step back. 

‘What are you doing up here?’ he asked, quietly. 

‘The same thing that you are,’ replied Mycroft. ‘Admiring the view.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Greg. ‘I am.’ 

He didn’t look away from Mycroft’s face, and was rewarded with a slight widening of the other Tribute’s eyes, before Mycroft regained his control, and his composure. 

Greg smirked. 

Mycroft didn’t. 

‘I was surprised by your points. Ten,’ he said. ‘Impressive.’ 

‘As was I,’ said Greg. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of any Tribute ever getting a twelve.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mycroft. ‘I suppose.’ 

‘What did you do?’ 

‘Nothing of importance.’ 

‘Bullshit,’ said Greg. ‘You must have done. You were in there for at least an hour.’ 

‘Yes, I was, wasn’t I?’ 

‘So, tell me. What did you do?’ 

‘I could ask you the same thing.’ 

‘As if you don’t already know.’ 

Mycroft surprised him by letting out a low, dark chuckle. ‘Yes, I do, rather. That man. The one with the cape. He walked in with a whole cape. He walked out with a torn one.’ 

Greg smiled, innocently. Mycroft looked at him, a predatory look in his eyes. 

‘A dagger,’ he said. ‘Rather inelegant, don’t you think?’ 

‘I think the opposite,’ replied Greg. 

‘It depends,’ said Mycroft, ‘I suppose, on the kind of dagger you use. Do you use elegant daggers, Gregory?’ 

Greg didn’t reply, simply looking back out over the city. 

The storm clouds were raging, and roiling, now. Low sounds of thunder echoed around them, giving the moment an all too dramatic feeling. Fitting, Greg supposed. 

Then, the skies split open. With a crack of white light that bathed both their faces, the first drops began to fall. The rainfall quickly picked up so it was pelting down Greg’s face. The refreshing coolness quickly soaked up the heat his body had been generating, just from proximity to Mycroft Holmes. The other Tribute’s predatory looks, Greg was ashamed to admit, were not helping matters. 

Glancing away, even just for a moment, was both a relief, and a torture. 

Suddenly, a canopy appeared over him, blocking out the roiling, grey clouds, outlined in the white of lightning. 

Greg turned, finding himself shoulder to shoulder with Mycroft Holmes, the other’s grey eyes staring at him intently. There was a lot there, predatory, watchful, powerful, almost controlling. As well interest. Strong, keen interest. 

And Greg was horribly aware that this was just what Mycroft was letting him see. 

‘Do you know why thunder occurs?’ asked Mycroft, after a particularly loud rumble. 

‘Enlighten me,’ said Greg. 

‘The lightning is a stream of high-powered electrons, generated by friction of water in the clouds. When it makes contact with the ground, the stream of electrons is so high powered and hot that it superheats the air around it. This tube of air is even hotter than the sun. 

‘This forms a sort of vacuum tube, created by the rapidly expanding air. However, when the lightning stops, the tube cools and rapidly contracts, creating a tubular drum-like phenomenon. The tube vibrates as it contracts, creating a wave of compressions and rarefactions in the air. 

‘Our ears experience this as sound.’ 

Greg smiled. ‘Impressive.’ 

‘Mmm,’ hummed Mycroft, noncommittally. ‘It is rather, isn’t it.’ 

‘Guess you’re just as clever as the blue haired ninny on the tele screen said.’ 

‘Yes,’ chuckled Mycroft, his eyes still locked with Greg’s. Greg couldn’t possibly look away. 

There was another silence. Just Greg and Mycroft, looking at one another. It wasn’t easy, that was for sure, but it was fascinating. Greg looked at all the minute details of Mycroft’s face. There were a few freckles, dotted over that regal nose. Those eyes had lashes above them that were pale, ghostly, and ever so slightly red in colour. 

There were tiny spokes of a darker grey running like a starburst out from the pupils of Mycroft’s eyes. 

‘You know, Gregory,’ said Mycroft, after a moment. ‘You have surprised me. Many times.’ 

‘Oh?’ 

‘Yes. I did not plan for you,’ he said. ‘You are an anomaly. I did not expect _you_ to occur.’ 

‘No one does,’ joked Greg. 

Mycroft didn’t reply, just lifted a hand to Greg’s chin. A single, long finger, and Greg realised that it was the first touch that they had shared. It was enough to send a bolt of lightning, like those shooting through the clouds, up his spine. 

It was so strong he almost felt his knees buckle beneath him. 

‘Marvellous,’ Mycroft whispered, his gravelly tone dropping down even lower. 

‘What is?’ asked Greg, whispering himself, not wanting to break the spell that seemed to have sunk over them. 

‘You are,’ replied Mycroft, simply. 

Then, with not another word, the tactician dropped his hand away, and glided off through the garden. 


	10. Prepared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the wonderful comments so far on this story, I enjoy reading all your comments very much... they're like my crack...
> 
> I just wanted to say that you shouldn't get too attached to any of these characters. Fair warning. I've already finished the story, and I update around eight on Saturdays and Wednesdays.

The sun was lightening the horizon when Greg finally got to his feet, and made his way back down to the floor on which they were staying. 

He hadn’t realised how long he had simply sat on the roof, contemplating what Mycroft had said to him, and what Mycroft had done. Greg was _fucked._ That much was obvious.

He didn’t know how, or why, but he was enraptured by the other Tribute. The grace, poise, gravitas and charisma of Mycroft Holmes had won him over, and it wasn’t good. Not at all. 

Greg was soaked, from head to toe. The rain had let up some hours later, leaving him cold and shivering on the roof, but unable to navigate out of the swampy mire of thoughts which Mycroft had thrust him into. It was a wholly uncomfortable feeling. 

Mycroft’s touch had thrown him entirely off-balance. The other Tribute’s confession of surprise at Greg’s mere existence only served to add to that. 

This was bad. 

‘What the _hell_ happened to you?!’ 

Greg blinked away lingering fogginess to see the living room, Dimmock up early with a steaming mug of coffee in his hands. He was standing in the centre of the living room, a pile of notes sitting on the coffee table by his knees. He realised how he must look. 

He knew his clothes were plastered to his body, and his face must almost be blue from the cold on the roof. His hair was matted down against his skull, and drips of water still trickled down his face. 

‘I… uh… lost track of time?’ 

‘Where?’ asked Dimmock. 

‘On the roof,’ replied Greg, shrugging. 

‘How…. you know, I don’t even want to know, Lestrade,’ said Dimmock, sighing, and taking a sip of his coffee, before rubbing his hand over his face. ‘Just go, have a shower, get something to eat. You look like a fucking drowned rat.’ 

‘Alright,’ said Greg, still slightly hazy. 

He turned, meandering back towards his room where his shower was. 

The feeling of the warm water sluicing over his skin and down his back was practically heavenly. It gave him the sensation of long fingers creeping down his spine. 

Greg was ashamed to admit that one of the reasons he had stayed out, basically all night, on the roof, was that the cold up there stopped him from gaining an erection. He knew he would, as soon as he warmed up, and resigned himself to his fate. 

No, Greg relished in it.

Standing there, under the hot water, Greg let his imagination wash over him. The memories from that night, the touch of Mycroft’s finger on his chin, the sense-memory, was enough. It let his imagination run free, like a horse out of the gate. It let it stampede away, imagining more of those fingers running up and down his spine, through his hair, across his arms. 

Down, past his navel to his cock and balls. 

Greg’s entire body was now tingling with sensation, and, raising a hand to muffle the sound, he let out a low moan into his fist, closing his eyes. 

Closing his eyes, Greg could imagine those long fingered hands running down his flanks, over his lightly muscled belly, and down to fist his cock. 

His other hand did the same, all the while picturing someone else’s. 

Running his fingers over the leaking slit, and the red bloom of his erection in his fist, he let out a breathy sigh into the marble. His head was leant against the tiles, the water thundering down around him and massaging the muscles of his back and shoulders. 

He was wound up tight, like a spring, the sensation of arousal stampeding through his body. It tingled in his toes, all the way up to the very crown of his head. 

The mind-version of Mycroft that Greg had managed to cook up was behind him, ghostly breaths on the back of his neck just like that time in the Training Centre. Mycroft’s long fingers trailed up his spine, one wrapped around his cock, the other creeping slowly lower and lower. 

Greg inhaled, sharply, and floundered with the hand he had previously been using to muffle his moans, he worked around to his back, trailing his fingers down his spine to match the phantom sensations his mind had cooked up. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it would have to do for now. 

His mind-Mycroft trailed those long fingers lower, lower, all the while fisting solidly at Greg’s Cock. 

Greg leant his head back, arching his neck, letting out a low moan to the heavens. All the while, the ghostly feeling of Mycroft’s fingers circled lightly just at the base of his spine. 

Tossing a hand out and grasping frantically for something, _anything,_ Greg encountered the bottles of stuff that had been sitting on the small ledge in the shower. They were tiny things, filled with odd, jelly-like substances and creams which Greg suspected were for his hair. 

He had no idea. 

It didn’t matter right now. They were close enough in texture to the stuff he used to use in private back in the District, when sexual frustration got to a peak, and John wasn’t in the house. 

Grabbing one, and letting go of his cock, he squeezed a dollop out onto his finger, rubbing it around a little, before taking up his former position. Legs spread wide, one hand fisted on his bright red cock, the other now between his cheeks, swirling around that tight furl of muscle concealing his entrance. 

It was an almost overwhelming mix of sensation, that led Greg to this point. His hand was still stroking his cock, almost blindingly fast. It blurred around his tight erection, the tingling feeling in his balls building tighter and tighter. 

He was so close, he just needed that tiny bit extra. 

Swiftly, Greg pushed a finger into himself, first one, then another, in rapid succession. The burn and stretch only added to his arousal, forcing a moan out of his throat. 

He could almost picture Mycroft, as solid as he had been up on the roof both times. Mycroft’s fingers plunging inside him, now. Mycroft’s fist tight around his cock, Mycroft’s shoulder for his head to rest on, right now. 

With another groan, Greg pulled his fingers out, before plunging them back in, and this time, this time, he got lucky. His fingers jabbed straight into his prostate, stimulating the tiny spot inside the hot, wet, tight clamp of his own body. Stars shot behind his eyelids, and his eyes themselves basically rolled into the back of his head with pleasure. 

The sensation was incredible. 

The Mycroft in Greg’s head was so strikingly real, that it was as if Greg could actually reach out and touch the other Tribute. He could practically hear the Career’s voice, the gravelly tones slicking right through his ear. 

_‘My dear Gregory, I want to_ consume _you.’_

That was enough. It was enough to send hims spiralling over the edge, diving headfirst over the precipice on which he had been balanced. 

His cock shot white fluid onto the tile of the shower walls, and the fingers he had plunged inside himself fondled his prostate. His mind spun, and his ghostly image of Mycroft held him tighter, those fingers on his hips, that voice in his ear, those breaths ghosting over the back of his neck, and those slate-grey eyes 

Sighing, Greg stood there under the shower, washing the residue off his hands and his belly. Shame coloured his cheeks. 

He couldn’t help the feeling that Mycroft was taking him in. That the Career was playing him for a fool, using him as a puppet. Then, later, in the Arena, Mycroft was going to pick him off at his leisure. And Greg had the horrible feeling that all he would have to do was click his fingers, and Greg would come rushing up to him like a good little pet. 

It was awful. 

The ghost of Mycroft’s single, long finger underneath his chin still had Greg shivering. 

And if that finger curled just the right way, Greg thought he might just come running. 

***

Dimmock did nothing but raise an eyebrow at him when Greg flopped down at the dining table, and begin to pick at a pastry on the plate in front of him. Calypso herself, usually not out of bed this early, was sitting next to him, going over the notes that he had spotted Dimmock with earlier. 

Brightly coloured pink hair was coiffed neatly on top of her hair, and she wore what looked like an extremely tight, hot pink suit, complete with a bowtie. 

‘Are you alright?’ she asked him, looking up from the notes. ‘You look tired, Gregory. Maybe you should go back to bed.’ 

‘It’s fine,’ replied Greg, his voice gravelly and a little weak from the lack of sleep. He had spotted himself in the mirror on his way out of the bathroom earlier, and he noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

‘He spent the night on the roof,’ Dimmock informed her. ‘For some unknown reason.’ 

‘Greg? Is that true?’ asked Calypso, giving him her full attention. Greg just shrugged. ‘Why?’ 

‘I wanted to think,’ replied Greg. 

‘About?’ promoted the bright-haired Capitol citizen. 

‘Just… stuff,’ Greg said. ‘I just… I miss my home.’ 

Technically it wasn’t a lie. He did miss the District. that just wasn’t the main reason he had been up there. Maybe, it should have been. Maybe he should be missing John more. 

Not a minute went by that Greg didn’t miss John, though. Just to hug the tiny blond one more time. One last time. 

Greg shook his head, and plastered a smile on his face, just as Suzie came through the door, yawning. 

‘Morning,’ she said, looking over at Dimmock and Calypso. 

‘Morning, Suzie, dear,’ replied Calypso, gesturing to the chair next to Greg. ‘How did you sleep?’ 

‘Really well, thanks Calypso,’ replied Suzie, grinning happily. 

Greg was suddenly jealous of her. Suzie was somehow still cheerful, lacking the melancholy and stagnation that Greg himself had felt from time to time. The futility, lack of fight in his bones that Greg had tried to weed out, but just… couldn’t. 

John. This was for John. This was to prove to John that one could survive. John, and Sally, and Maya and Molly and all of them waiting for him back in the District. He wasn’t going to come home, but he could at least give them some fight, some hope, and not just an apathetic mess. 

With that in mind, Greg sat up a little straighter, and looked over the table at both Dimmock and Calypso. He blinked awake a little more, just to give himself a final kick, and took a long sip of the juice in front of him.

Wiping his mouth on the napkin next to him, Greg spoke. 

‘So,’ he said, ‘What’s the plan?’ 

‘Glad you asked,’ replied Dimmock, patting the pile of notes next to him. ‘Calypso and I have come up with the way you’re both going to behave, and why. We need you both to project a certain image, so, today, we’ll each be taking you for a few hours, and then switching. I’m going to talk to both of you about why we need you to portray the image that we do, and Calypso is going to teach you how to do it. 

‘She’s going to do her best to teach the both of you etiquette and proper speaking, as well as how you’re going to sit and walk and how you’re going to react to the other Tributes.’ 

‘Alright,’ nodded Greg. 

‘And later on, once we’re both finished, about two hours before the interviews are supposed to start, Clara and Venus are coming by. They’re going to get you into the clothes that we have set out for you.’ 

Greg nodded. 

‘So, firstly, I’m going to take you, Suzie. And Greg, you’re going with Dimmock. We’ll switch in a few hours time.’ 

‘Sounds good to me,’ said Suzie, cheerfully, taking a final bite of her toast, then standing. Calypso took up the folder filled with notes from the table, and followed Suzie out, closing the door behind herself, and leaving behind Dimmock and Greg. 

‘So,’ began Dimmock. ‘You wanna tell me what the _hell_ you were thinking, spending the night up on the roof like that?’ 

Shit. Greg had hoped they wouldn’t broach this subject. 

‘I told you,’ said Greg. ‘I wanted to think.’ 

‘And you couldn’t have done that down here, where it’s warm? You’re going to have enough time to think in the cold and the wet out in the Arena in just over twenty-four hours’ time, or did you forget that bit?’ 

‘No,’ Greg grunted, ‘I didn’t. I just… I just wanted to think.’ 

‘Lestrade,’ sighed Dimmock. ‘I realise you’re not gonna tell me the truth on this one. Just… don’t do something stupid. Just because it has worked out for you once, doesn’t mean it’s going to work out for you again, you understand me?’ 

‘I know,’ replied Greg. ‘I was just thinking. I swear.’ 

‘Liar,’ grunted Dimmock. ‘But it doesn’t matter. What matters is getting you ready for the interviews tonight, and the Arena tomorrow. These interview, tonight, are important, Lestrade, do you hear me? We need this, to get sponsors. Your incredibly score alone isn’t gonna cut it. You have to have strength, and charisma, and charm. That’ll make the sponsors like you.’ 

‘Alright,’ nodded Greg, thankful that Dimmock had seemed to drop the topic. Shifting more upright in his seat, he leant over to look at the notes that Dimmock had pulled out and placed in front of him. 

They were a pile of still photographs of him, capturing his face, his easy grin, and the way he had held onto Suzie’s hand. As well came a few news articles, centred around him. 

Dimmock tapped them. 

‘I’m not saying read these, Lestrade,’ he began, ‘but understand that currently, you have a very good image. You’re popular with the sponsors, what with your high score, your underdog status, your so-called charming smile, and particularly the way that Caesar described your son, last night. Apparently that’s a very attractive feature.’ 

Dimmock rolled his eyes. 

‘Personally, I don’t see it. You’re more hideous than a troll.’ 

‘Oi!’ Greg spluttered, leaning over to take a swipe at the older man. It had the effect that Dimmock had intended, though. Greg smiled, a truly genuine smile, one he hadn’t worn since his discussion with Mycroft the previous night. ‘I’m beautiful, and you know it.’ 

‘And thank whatever powers that be for it,’ muttered Dimmock. ‘Apparently your ‘silver locks’ make you seem quite the silver fox.’ 

‘What does that even mean?’

‘I have no clue,’ replied Dimmock, shrugging honestly. ‘But it is a good thing, and we’re going to use that. Sponsors like you — they don’t want to see you dead. That’s going to work in our favour. You’re also popular amongst the ordinary Capitol citizens. That makes you popular with the Gamemakers, as well, so they won’t actively be rooting against you. 

‘I’m also fairly certain that they aren’t angry with you about the dagger incident. After all, if they had been, they would have given you a one.’ 

Greg grinned. ‘I’m just that good.’ 

‘Don’t get cocky. Anyway, the way we are going to portray you- you are going to be the handsome knight. The charming knight, come to sweep all the Capitol girls off their feet.’ 

Greg let out a low, dark chuckle. 

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Dimmock. 

‘Well,’ shrugged Greg, looking innocent. ‘I’ve never been particularly partial to a Capitol girl.’ 

‘That doesn’t matter, Lestrade,’ said Dimmock. ‘We have to make you charming, charismatic. You have to be that boyishly good-looking young man with a heart of gold, and a loving father figure to your son who you miss very much.’ 

‘I do miss him.’ 

‘Good,’ said Dimmock. ‘That’s good. Play that up.’ 

***

‘Sit down,’ demanded Calypso, leaning over him. 

The Capitol woman, who usually seemed so effervescent and carefree, was now demanding, and rather bossy, if Greg could say so himself. She was strong and stringently demanding of him, issuing orders like nobody’s business. 

‘No, no,’ she fluttered, ‘not like that. You have to keep your back straight. And that smile, that crooked one? Keep it on your face.’ 

‘But I’m so _damn_ uncomfortable,’ replied Greg. ‘Please, I can’t.’ 

‘Well, you have to,’ Calypso shot back. ‘You’ll have to do it for the interview, after all.’ 

‘I know,’ replied Greg, sighing, and leaning his head back. ‘Just give me a moment to stretch, please…’ 

‘Alright,’ grumbled Calypso, as Greg leaned his head back, rolling his neck on his shoulders in an attempt to click his bones back into place. ‘Let’s talk about how you’re going to respond to the questions.’ 

‘Caesar. What’s he going to ask me?’ asked Greg. 

‘I don’t know,’ replied Calypso, but he generally asks a few of the same things. He’s going to ask about John. And about you volunteering. Are you alright with that?’ 

‘I’m going to have to be, aren’t I?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Calypso, gravely. ‘I think you’ll be fine, though. Just smile, charmingly. You seem to be rather talented at that.’ 

‘I think that’s a compliment,’ said Greg, grinning weakly over at her. She smiled, in return. 

‘Why did you get District Ten?’ asked Greg, softly. 

‘I didn’t,’ she replied, looking away, a little awkwardly. ‘I got assigned to it.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ Greg mumbled. ‘I guess that’s hard, hey?’ 

‘I suppose,’ she replied. ‘Now, when you answer, try to reply humorously. We love that here, in the Capitol.’ 

Greg didn’t mention the subject change. 

‘And where you can, maybe talk about what you’re wearing, and the inspiration behind it and your outfit for the Opening Ceremony. It is interesting - I’m sure people will love to hear about it.’ 

‘Okay,’ said Greg. ‘I reckon I’m ready to try it again.’ 

‘Alright!’ Calypso clapped her hands, standing up and gesturing for Greg to do the same. ‘Now, Dimmock and I have decided that you need to seem like a charming, strong, handsome young man with a heart of gold. So you need to walk upright, with a strong back. Place a hand over your middle, like so,’ she demonstrated, ‘and it will give you a very dapper look. Walk confidently, with your back straight.

‘You got that?’ 

‘I think so,’ said Greg, nodding, and mimicking what she had done. His back was straight, almost uncomfortably so, and he felt strange walking in such a way. Calypso had made him stick his chest out, almost like a chicken. 

So, he did just that. 

Sticking his chest out a little further, he tucked his arms up under his armpits, and bobbed his elbows, making him seem like more of a chicken. To add to the effect, he clucked a few times, sticking out his lips mockingly like a beak, and stepping forwards with large, long strides. 

Calypso let out a peal of laughter, a laughter that actually sounded genuine for the first time, and slapped him on the arm. 

‘You stop it now,’ she told him, acting mock-irritated. ‘You aren’t helping. You have to take this seriously!’ 

‘I am!’ said Greg. ‘You said humorous, and fun!’ 

‘But not too humorous!’ 

‘Thanks, clear as mud, mate,’ Greg shook his head. She just rolled her eyes. 

‘You know what to do,’ she asserted. ‘We’ve practiced this enough. You know how you have to behave, and I do mean it. _Behave._ Clara should be here soon.’ 

There was a knock at the door. 

‘Oh,’ fluttered Calypso, ‘speak of the devil.’ 

Opening the door, the Capitol escort revealed both Clara and Venus, who were each holding large garment bags. Behind them, Paxton and Narelle stepped through, a box between them that looked heavy, weighted down by makeup and other accessories. 

‘Clara!’ Greg greeted, enthusiastically. The stylist was just as happy to see him, reaching out to grasp him in a long-armed hug. 

‘Good to see you, Greg,’ she replied, grinning next to his ear. Her smaller frame Greg released, after just a moment, so she could step back and carefully lay her garment bag down next to her, just as both Suzie and Dimmock meandered back out into the living room. 

‘Clara, Venus, good to see you,’ said Dimmock, nodding at the both of them. Behind Clara, both Paxton and Narelle brushed forwards, to crowd around Suzie and Greg. 

‘Oh, dah-lings, we are so proud of you,’ gushed Paxton. ‘You did so well, and looked so good doing it! Truly amazing, dah-ling!’ 

‘Great,’ nodded Greg, ‘thanks.’ 

‘Of course,’ replied Paxton. ‘That ten, you showed them, didn’t you?’ 

‘I guess,’ replied Greg. 

‘And you, little Suzie dah-ling!’ gushed Narelle. ‘We were both so impressed, weren’t we, Pax?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Paxton, nodding emphatically. 

‘Narelle, Pax, come on.’ prompted Venus, quietly. ‘We have a job to do.’ 

Both of the fluttery make-up artists waved their hands, sighing and flouncing off to unpack the boxes. 

‘Come on, Greg, let’s have a chat,’ said Clara, grabbing Greg by the arm. Greg nodded. 

Clara led him down the hall, into his own room. It was lit up by sunlight at midday, bathing the room in a warm yellow light. Greg took a seat in one of the armchairs to the right of the bed, next to the window, and Clara took the seat opposite him, eating forwards to pour herself a glass of water, taking a brief sip. 

‘How has it been?’ she asked him. 

‘Alright,’ replied Greg. ‘You know.’ 

‘How have you been holding up?’ 

Greg didn’t know how to answer, so he just looked away. The other woman sighed. 

‘You know, Greg, you can tell me the truth.’ 

‘I know,’ Greg shrugged. ‘But if I’m honest, I don’t really know what the truth is myself.’ 

‘Ah,’ said Clara. ‘I can understand that.’ 

‘It’s just hard, you know,’ said Greg. ‘I mean, I have a little boy who means the world to me,’ unconsciously, Greg raised a hand to the wooden pendant that hadn’t left his body since he had put it on the chain, ‘and I want to get back to him so badly. But I know I won’t.’ 

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Clara said, softly. ‘You shouldn’t be so quick to write yourself off.’ 

Greg snorted. ‘Have you ever heard of Mycroft Holmes?’ 

‘Who cares?’ asked Clara. ‘He’s one boy. One Tribute, just like you.’ 

‘He’s trained for years for this stuff, Clara. I haven’t. I’m gonna get killed in the first day.’ 

‘No,’ Clara replied, her voice slightly steeled. ‘You won’t. I’m betting on you, Silver Knight.’ 

‘Where’d that come from?’ asked Greg, grinning ironically. 

‘It’s what they’re all calling you.’ 

‘Who?’

‘The Capitol people. They’re all calling you the Silver Knight. The handsome warrior with the grey hair.’ 

‘Oh, great,’ mumbled Greg. ‘Cause that ain’t embarrassing.’ 

‘It’s a good thing, Greg,’ said Clara. ‘Especially when you see the costume I have planned for you.’ 

‘I’m already scared. Particularly after that thing you dressed me in for the parade.’ 

‘Shut up,’ Clara hit him. 

***

This time, before the interviews, all the Tributes had been escorted to seperate holding pens. Next to him, Suzie was shifting nervously in her silvery princess dress. She kept shifting the small tiara that she wore around on her curled hair. Her hands were jittery, and shaking. 

‘Are you alright?’ asked Greg. 

‘Yeah,’ she replied, ‘Just a bit nervous.’ 

‘Me too,’ mumbled Greg. ‘I’m sure it’s gonna be fine.’ 

‘I know,’ Suzie said, nodding. ‘But it’s just weird. I thought I was gonna be normal. And now here I am, about to go onto the biggest show in the country, and everyone’s gonna be watching me.’ 

‘I know,’ replied Greg. ‘I thought I was gonna be normal, too. I thought it was just gonna be me and John forever on my farm and we were gonna be safe and healthy and happy. But instead I’m here.’

There was a silence. 

‘Your mum’s gonna be proud. Even prouder than at the Opening Ceremony, I reckon.’ 

‘You reckon?’ Suzie turned to him, her eyes sparkling. 

Greg nodded. ‘Yeah, I really do.’ 

‘Thanks, Greg.’ 

Again, there was a silence. 

The room they were in was dim, only a small, metal bench there for them to sit on. It wasn’t much, and they had been put there by Dimmock and Calypso, who were then ushered out, yelling last minute bits of advice over their shoulders. Above them, on the wall, sitting at an angle to the ceiling, was a tele screen. Currently, it was broadcasting just the Capitol symbol, but soon, that would fade, and leave Caesar to do his talking, and his interviewing. This was going live, out across the country. 

John would be watching. 

Greg had something in mind. Something he wanted to say to the younger boy. 

On his chest, his pendant was proudly displayed, the roughly hewn piece of wood his pride and joy. Gently, Greg raised a gloved handed to touch it, rubbing over the well-worn path of the ring outside the circle. 

‘Greg,’ Suzie’s voice said, softly. ‘I don’t think I can forgive you.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ he asked. 

‘I don’t think I can forgive you for telling me.’ She sounded sad. ‘I want to, I really, really do. I just… I just can’t stop wishing you hadn’t told me. I wish I could still live like I didn’t know.’ 

‘I know,’ said Greg. ‘I wish I could do that too. But I can’t. Neither of us can deny, Suzie. It’ll just make it harder.’ 

‘I know,’ said Suzie. ‘But I just… I just don’t know.’ 

‘That’s alright,’ said Greg, putting on a brave face and trying not to let the lack of forgiveness from this young girl, who reminded him so strongly of John, wound him in any way at all. ‘I don’t expect you to. If I was in your position, I wouldn’t either.’ 

There was a sense of finality to this silence. The room was suffused with the glow of the strip lighting overhead, but aside from that, there was nothing else in the room. 

Slowly, the tele screen crackled to life. The Capitol symbol began to spin faster, and the sound of the anthem bellowed out from the speakers, rather obnoxiously in Greg’s opinion. 

But it didn’t seem like he really had an opinion anymore. 

_‘Ladies and gentlemen, your announcer of ceremonies; Caesar Flickerman!’_ The camera turned, panning out, revealing the blue-haired Caesar in all his glory. Wearing another navy blue suit to match his hair, he spread his arms wide, springing up from the rather uncomfortable-looking lounge chair he had been settled into. 

The piped applause from the audience rang out hollow and tinny in the room. Greg shuddered, not just from the cold. 

_‘Thank you! Thank you.’_ Caesar held up his arms to the adoring audience, as the cameras panned around him to get a good look at the audience members themselves. _‘Welcome! Welcome, al, to the 74th Hunger Games!’_

With that, the audience excitement and applause peaked, as did Greg’s desire to simply be ill. It was sick, how all these people were so excited to watch a bunch of kids die. To watch him die, this year. 

It was sickening. 

Greg wanted to scream. 

_‘Now, in about five minutes, we will be having all the Tributes you’ve been hearing about, up here on stage! Are you excited?’_

There was a loud round of emphatic ‘yeses’ from the crowd. 

_‘I can’t hear you!’_ taunted Caesar. ‘ _Louder!’_

‘YES!’ the audience screamed back. 

_‘Alright then! Now, first up, be have the young woman from District One. Irene Adler!’_

Caesar swept out an arm, gesturing for Irene to enter the stage. She did, gracefully gliding on in a blood-red evening gown, sweeping the floor. Her sharp, red heels poked out from under the dress, and her starkly red painted lips matched the dress she wore. It had some sort of gems sewn into the fabric, that shone under the hot stage lights. 

Suzie took in a breath. ‘She looks beautiful.’ 

‘So do you,’ said Greg, squeezing her shoulder briefly. ‘Don’t worry.’ 

_‘So, Irene, wow! Incredible! May I just say… you look fantastic!’_ Irene smiled a rather sinister grin, showing off all her teeth. 

_‘Thank you, Caesar.’_

Caesar proceeded to ask her a few questions, which she replied to sharply and smartly. She seemed to exude sexuality, her breasts pushing up attractively over the collar of the dress. The collar itself was deep, cutting down her middle, striking as she lounged comfortably on the chair which she had been relegated to. She looked like a queen. She really, really did. 

_‘Thank you, Irene,’_ said Caesar, finally, lifting to his feet, and taking Irene’s hand gracefully in his own, then raising it as if Irene were the victor of a boxing match. _‘Ladies and gentlemen! Irene Adler!’_

Irene smiled graciously, before gliding off stage. 

_‘Next up, ladies and gentlemen, we have a young man who has been dominating headlines in the Capitol recently. Not only for his good looks, but is incredible intellectual and physical prowess. Last night, he became the first Tribute in the history of the Games to earn a perfect score of twelve points, and has been dubbed the Great Tactician. Ladies and gentlemen; Mycroft Holmes!’_

Greg sat up straighter, almost on instinct. Even the sight of Mycroft was enough to send slight jitters down his spine. The memory of the obscene things he had done to himself with an image of this man in his mind… he could already feel his cheeks heating up. 

As Mycroft stepped up to the stage, gliding perhaps even more gracefully than Irene before him, Greg finally got a good look at what the Career was wearing. Dressed in a similar garb as he had been the previous nights that Greg had seen him. A three piece suit, decked out with bright, brass buttons, and a chain. The suit was in a dark purple, reminiscent of his regal outfit during the Opening Ceremony. The other addition to the outfit was a smooth cape piece, that swept down from Mycroft’s shoulders to flow around his ankles. It was a beautiful piece, rich and dark, almost like Mycroft had an extra shadow. 

On his back, it blended perfectly with the suit jacket he wore, over the top of the waistcoat. 

_‘Good evening, Caesar,’_ said Mycroft, smoothly. His voice lost some of that rich, gravelly tone, through the tele screen, but Greg could fill that part in in his mind. _‘How are you?’_

_‘Fine, thank you,’_ replied Caesar, holding out his hand for Mycroft to shake. Mycroft did so, with a gracious smile, and Greg tore his eyes away from focusing on those hands. _‘And you?’_

_‘I have been fine, thank you,’_ said Mycroft, smoothly. _‘Shall we sit?’_

Incredible. Mycroft, within a single moment, had swept in, and taken control of the interview, without even having to bat an eyelash. 

_‘Yes, yes,’_ said Caesar, seemingly a little thrown off. _‘Of course.’_

Mycroft waited a moment, for Caesar to take his seat, and then sat himself, carefully sweeping the cape out underneath him. The Career positioned himself carefully, settling over his cape, one leg crossed over the other, and one elbow propped on the arm of the chair. 

_‘So,’_ began Caesar, _‘They have been calling you the Great Tactician. Can you give us a little insight as to why?’_

_‘I’m sure I don’t know,’_ replied Mycroft, smiling almost sweetly. _‘I think someone may have over-exaggerated.’_

_‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,’_ Caesar said, laughing. _‘Your twelve points proves that, certainly?’_

_‘It proves that I am skilled, I suppose, yes.’_

_‘No one in the history of the Games has ever achieved that.’_

_‘Then no-one else has worked as hard as I did.’_

_‘Ooh, feisty!’_ Caesar exclaimed, delightedly. _‘We do love that, don’t we?’_ A cheer rose from the audience. 

_‘Now, Mycroft, we have found that your mother was the late, great Violet Holmes. Is that true?’_

_‘Of course,’_ Mycroft bowed his head. _‘She was quite the mother.’_

_‘I am sure she was. What was she like?’_

_‘She was poised, beautiful, graceful. All traits of her time spent in the Capitol. And she taught me many things.’_

A cheer rose from the audience. 

Mycroft’s sheer charisma rolled over them, blanketing Greg in a suffusing wave. Beside him, even Suzie seemed like she was happier, leaning forwards eagerly to listen to what Mycroft had to say. 

_‘Mycroft, do you think you are ready for the games?’_

Mycroft chuckled, lowly. _‘Caesar,’_ he said, _‘There are times when I know that I am ready for these Games. I know that I am ready to fight for my District, have pride for my District. I want to make my District great. And I can only do that by winning these Games._

_‘I am certain of that. But then, Caesar,’_ and Mycroft raised a finger, coincidentally the same finger that he had touched to Greg’s chin, _‘Then, I have these moments, when I am not so sure after all.’_

And Mycroft looked right into the camera. Right through the camera, at Greg, and Greg felt his heart skip a beat. Mycroft’s eyes were deep, soulful, and ever so slightly vulnerable. It was the most enticing thing Greg had seen so far, and he leant forwards. 

Then, a whooping sigh flew up from the audience, and Greg realised he wasn’t the only one taken in. Mycroft’s eyes were captivating. They were soul deep, but they were also the enchanting eyes of a man who knew the weapon he wielded, just by being himself. He was, as they had said, the _Great Tactician._ He knew what he was doing. Not only to Greg, but to the Capitol audience, as well. 

_‘Astounding,’_ said Caesar, once the whooping and cheering ha died down. There was still that intoxicatingly heavy charisma sweeping through Greg, and through Suzie, as well, by his side, just from the tense way she was holding herself. _‘And will you win?’_

Now, out came the predatory grin that Greg had had aimed at him one too many times. But, it seemed, the Capitol residents were experiencing it for the very first time. It was hitting them like a sack of bricks, straight in the face. Greg could see the moment, exactly, when Mycroft had managed to make every woman, and most of the men, in the Capitol, fall in love with him, and it was right then. 

_‘I believe I will, Caesar,’_ said Mycroft. _‘After all. Do you really take me for a man who will let anything stand in my way?’_

There was a riotous cheer from the audience, and Caesar stood. Just like he had done with Irene before, Caesar raised Mycroft’s arm in victory. Mycroft still grinned his predatory grin, straight down the lens of the camera. 

_‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Great Tactician, Mycroft Holmes!’_

With that, Mycroft glided off stage. 

The interviews continued, as Greg slumped back into his seat. The entirety of Mycroft’s interview had had him sitting right on the edge of his seat, captivated. Though, that was rather the point, wasn’t it? 

Janine’s interview was next, and she came out wearing a stunning, purple gown. Following hers was Moriarty’s, who was just as creepy, lilting and dangerous sounding as Greg expected it to be. 

His lilting, calm voice sent chills up Greg’s spine, and not in a good way. His black eyes hovered just on the edge of deranged. It was disturbing. 

The next few interviews rolled by smoothly, until Greg and Suzie were both ushered up, and out of the room, heading down the corridor towards the backstage. 

First, Suzie went on. 

She played the perfect part of the innocent young girl, her eyes wide and her expression almost hapless. She swirled about in her princess dress, like a perfect young lady, and answered all of Caesar’s questions as best she could, smiling cutely at the cameras. 

But Greg was far too distracted to remember much of what she said. 

Because it was him, next. Once Suzie had waved cutely at the audience, and then flounced offstage, the attendant prompted him forwards. ‘Good luck,’ he whispered, as he practically shoved Greg onstage. Greg only just managed to retain his poise, as he stepped out into those bright, hot lights. 

The crowds went wild as he approached, plastering a grin onto his face, the crooked one that both Calypso and Clara had told him was best. 

Slowly, they begun to fade to a dull roar, as Greg stepped up over the stage, and up towards where Caesar was holding out a hand in greeting. 

_‘Ladies and gentlemen, the so-called Silver Knight of District Ten, Gregory Lestrade!’_


	11. Interview

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the so-called Silver Knight of District Ten, Gregory Lestrade!’ 

Greg let his hand be grasped tightly in Caesar’s own, and shaken, quite excitedly. Up close, Caesar looked almost like plastic doll. His forehead was smooth, and free of creases, and his teeth were unnaturally white. His mouth was spread wide, in a delighted fashion, but it was almost as if he was about to chew Greg’s head off. 

Greg had to resist the urge to take a step backwards. 

‘Please, please,’ said Caesar, gesturing to the seats behind them. ‘Take a seat.’ 

‘I’d be happy to,’ replied Greg, smiling his crooked smile. The audience members _ooh_ -ed. 

‘Such manners,’ gushed Caesar, as he sat down in his seat. 

Greg followed suit, taking a brief moment to look out into the audience. Up at the back of the studio, something he hadn’t previously noticed, was a large screen. On it was the projection of the live show, and he could see himself, sitting there in the outfit Clara had put him in. 

It was a fairly ordinary looking button-up suit, with simple black buttons, and a white shirt without a tie. On his lapel was John’s pendant, taken off its chain and pinned in place with great care. 

However, notably, his right sleeve was covered, not with a suit jacket sleeve, but with a silvery army-piece reminiscent of the armour that he had worn at the Opening Ceremony. A striking piece of worked metal armour, it had multiple segments, allowing for free movement, linked together by chain-link armour. It jangled, a little, and was strapped onto his arm by a leather belt, clipped around his upper torso. 

His lower right hand was covered partially by a gauntlet, over which was embossed a sword, just like the one he had pinned to his lapel. The shoulder piece had the same symbol embossed onto it, and set into it was a shimmering diamond. The entire piece glittered under the light of the stage. 

‘So,’ began Caesar, ‘I think we’re all dying to know about this arm piece you’re wearing. Simply delightful, isn’t it?’ 

The audience let out a whoop of assent, and Greg plastered another grin on his face. 

‘Thank you,’ he said, waving a little. Collectively, the audience sighed. ‘It is pretty cool, isn’t it?’ 

Another call of assent from the crowds. 

‘It was designed by my stylist, Clara,’ said Greg, ‘She’s great, by the way. Lovely woman. Beautiful, too.’ 

He winked, at the camera. The crowd _ooh_ -ed, and next to him, Caesar fanned himself. 

‘Ooof,’ sighed Caesar, ‘You’d better turn off that charm, young man. You’ll be showing me up, soon.’ 

‘Oh Caesar,’ Greg shot back, ‘I don’t think that’s possible.’ 

Caesar let out another of his mouth-wide laughs, and Greg followed suit. The audience joined in, albeit with some whooping and clapping. 

The pit of Greg’s stomach was roiling, flicking around nervously as if he had swallowed some sort of animal, and it was still moving around in there. 

‘Greg,’ Caesar said, shifting in his seat, in an effort to become more comfortable, more serious. The audience died down. ‘You managed to earn yourself a ten in the Gamemakers’ assessment last night. That is one of the highest scores achieved by any Tribute from your District. If not _the highest._ You want to let us in on any secrets? Any hidden skills? How _did_ you earn such a high score? And don’t say you slept your way there…’ 

Greg chuckled. ‘No, I wish,’ he replied, tapping the side of his nose. This earned him a peal of loud laughter from the audience. ‘I am afraid you’ll have to wait and see. Although I will say this - I do know my way around a sword.’ 

There was another burst of laughter from the audience. 

One man in particular, an older, white haired man with a wrinkled face, laughed rather lewdly, and was staring up at Greg in an altogether nasty fashion. Greg shifted in his seat, refocusing his attention. 

‘Not like that,’ Greg protested, laughing. Next to him, Caesar laughed, and patted his arm. 

‘Oh you poor, poor, innocent soul.’ 

‘I wouldn’t call myself innocent.’ 

Another bout of laughter. Greg smiled, both to the crowd, and to himself. This was going as well as Dimmock had told him, his jokes seemed to be popular, and every time he smiled that crooked smile that had made the boys and girls at school blush, a sigh rose from the audience. 

‘So, nothing? You can’t tell us anything?’

‘Well,’ Greg shrugged, the armour on his right arm shifting. ‘I guess you’ll just have to wait to find out.’ 

‘I guess we will. Anyway, how are you finding life in the Capitol?’ 

‘It’s very different,’ replied Greg. 

‘Different? Different how?’ 

‘Well,’ Greg began, ‘You have different lifts.’

‘We have different _lifts,_ ’ repeated Caesar, raising an eyebrow. 

‘Yes,’ replied Greg. ‘They actually exist.’ 

Another laugh, from the audience. 

‘Oh,’ said Caesar, humorously. 

‘Yep,’ Greg said, ‘I didn’t know what it was, when I first saw it. I had to ask my escort, Calypso, what it was. When she explained, well,’ he shrugged, ‘I didn’t want to get on. I thought I was going to die.’ 

Caesar let out a laugh, as the audience joined him. Greg grinned. 

‘And another thing,’ Greg raised a finger, ‘Here, I don’t have a screaming child, trying to wake me up at every goddamn hour.’ 

‘True, true,’ said Caesar, nodding. ‘Because you have a son, don’t you?’ 

‘I do indeed,’ replied Greg. ‘And I’ve found, the only way to get my son to do anything at all, is on pain of death.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Caesar. 

Greg had to hide his grimace, at the joke he was about to make next. It was one he had made to Sally, a few weeks ago. 

‘Well, I have to make threats of death to get him to do anything.’ Greg sat more upright. ‘For example, my John, he sometimes doesn’t want to put his socks on. So I say; “If you don’t put your socks on, you will get frostbite in your toes, and your feet will fall off, you won’t be able to walk to get food, and you will die.”—‘ 

A round of applause from the audience. Caesar is laughing, delighted. 

‘—“If you don’t go to school, you will be stupid, not be able to get anything to eat, and you will die”—‘

Another laugh, and loud round of applause. In the front row, two women with enormous piles of blonde hair on their heads are laughing, hysterically. 

‘—And finally, my favourite —“If you don’t go to sleep right now, I will personally kill you. I have a plan, and an alibi.”’ 

Riotous laughter from the audience. Caesar looks almost like he is in pain, bending over his knees and bellowing out laughs to the floor. His navy hair is ever so slightly haywire around his head, as he wipes a hand over his eyes. 

Yeah, it had been a funny joke when he had made it to Sally, but it hadn’t been this funny. Different people, Greg guessed. 

Here, in the Capitol, they wouldn’t understand that if John didn’t do these things, he was actually at risk of dying. Except maybe the last one. That one would never happen, no matter how much John infuriated him. 

‘No,’ moaned Caesar. ‘No more… you’re too funny!’ 

‘Thank you,’ Greg smiled, graciously. ‘I aim to please.’ 

‘That you do,’ laughed Caesar, sitting upright and wiping the tears from his eyes. 

The audience’s laughter continued, as Caesar waved at them to calm down. 

‘But,’ Caesar began, once the studio was quiet once more. ‘You do have a child. We all saw him in that moving clip from the Reaping. But you didn’t volunteer for him, did you?’ 

‘No,’ said Greg, ‘I volunteered for my best friend’s brother, Alex. Sally, my best friend, would have been _destroyed_ if Alex had gone.’ 

‘Oh, how brave,’ sighed Caesar, in unison with the rest of the room. ‘And dedicated. Maybe, if you win, you’ll go back to Sally. Have a nice reunion, all that jazz?’ 

Greg let out a low, booming chuckle. ‘Sally? Oh, no, not really my type.’

‘Ah, well, that’s a pity,’ said Caesar. ‘But more on your son. Was he who made you that charming pendant we saw on you at the Opening Ceremony, and here with you as a pin on your lapel?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Greg, touching the pendant, proudly. ‘John is the most talented kid. He’s brilliant.’ 

‘I’m sure he would be delighted to hear that,’ said Caesar. ‘And if he was listening, which he probably is, what would you say to him?’ 

‘Oh,’ said Greg, looking at Caesar. ‘That’s easy.’ 

This, this was going to come from the heart. The rest of this nonsense, it was going to be forgettable, but this moment, right here. This was what John would see last of him. The last time Greg was going to be able to talk to his little Soldier. Not in-person, but it would have to be good enough. 

‘I would tell John that he is a brave little soldier. My brave little soldier. And that he is brilliant, and talented, and so handsome. I love him more than the sun and moon and stars in the sky.’ 

Next to him, Caesar was sniffling, again. The navy-haired host raised a tissue to his eye, wiping away tears. In the audience, Greg could see that a few others were doing the same thing. 

‘Very moving,’ sighed Caesar. ‘I’m sure I speak for all of us here in saying that we hope you get back to your little boy. It’s a marvellous thing, you love him with the father’s love for his son.’

‘Well, he is my son,’ shrugged Greg. ‘He was by himself, and I adopted him. So, he is my son.’ 

‘And so young. Such responsibility, and maturity, at just eighteen years old.’ 

‘Well,’ shrugged Greg. ‘I have to have it. For him.’ 

‘For him,’ said Caesar. ‘That’s right.’ 

With that, Caesar stood, and grasped Greg’s hand in his own. And just as he had done with Mycroft and the other Tributes before him, Caesar raised Greg’s arms into the air in a victorious position. 

Greg didn’t feel like a fucking winner. 

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the charming, handsome, caring and loving Gregory Lestrade, the Silver Knight!’ 

***

‘C’mon, John, the interviews are about to start,’ Sally prompted, poking John in the side. John hummed, looking up from the book that he had been reading. 

It was the Silver Knight book, the one that Greg had used to read to him up until just about a week ago. The book was battered, but John had held it close the entire time. That, and the socks he had been given on Greg’s last full day. 

‘I don’t know if I wanna watch it,’ said John, quietly, looking down at the grass he had perched himself on, right outside the barn for the cows. 

‘John,’ sighed Sally, taking a seat next to the younger boy. ‘Greg’s gonna be on the interviews. And don’t you want to see Greg?’ 

‘I do,’ sighed John, clinging tightly to his book. Sally watched the younger boy turn his face away from her, just before she heard the sniffles. 

John had been having such a hard time with the whole thing. He had been struggling so much — it was so heartbreaking to see this young boy, the talented, bright young man that Greg had taken under his wing and loved with everything in the old bastard’s body, like this. As depressed as this. 

Sally was sure she had done everything she could. Given John all the support that he needed, helped him when he needed helping, given him a shoulder to cry on. 

But the little boy had been stoic. Completely and utterly silent and stoic in everything he had done and said was with a strong sense of carrying on. He had clung to the battered book in his hands like a lifeline, and Sally knew he kept the socks that Greg had given him balled up in his pockets. The tin soldier that had been Greg’s first gift was secreted inside another of the boy’s pockets. 

Here was a boy who had lost so much, gained so much, and was about to have to watch himself lose it all again. 

Damn Gregory Lestrade. How the hell was she supposed to fill the shoes that the bastard had left in this little boy’s life? 

‘Oh, John,’ Sally sighed, tucking an arm around the boy. ‘It’s okay to be upset, you know that, don’t you?’ 

‘I guess,’ John mumbled. ‘But I just gotta keep going. It’s what Greg wanted me to do.’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Sally, ‘He wants you to do whatever you need to do to be happy. And that means telling people how you feel.’ 

‘I don’t… I don’t…’ 

John fell silent. 

Sally knew what to do.

‘Come on inside, John,’ she prompted him. ‘Come inside your house and we’ve got some really nice bread that we baked, and the baker even gave us a few slices of cake for afterwards. Said he’d made them ‘specially for you. And we’ll watch the interviews. You’ll get to see Greg. And maybe he might even say something to you.’ 

‘You reckon?’ asked John, turning to look at Sally, his eyes wide and hopeful. Sally nodded. 

‘I’m almost a hundred percent sure of it,’ she replied, just to see the light coming into the boy’s eyes. 

It wasn’t much, that was for sure, but it was something. 

Sally got to her feet, then helped John up, dusting the little boy off. Gripping his hand, she led him down the hill, towards the back of the house. 

‘It was pretty cool what he wore at the parade, wasn’t it?’ she asked, him, quietly. John nodded. 

‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘It was really cool.’ 

Sally smiled. ‘He looked just like the knight from your book, didn’t he?’ 

‘Definitely,’ grinned John.

Sally’s heart just melted at that look on the boy’s face. She could suddenly see exactly what it was that had made Greg Lestrade fall for this boy. It was in everything the boy said, and did. 

John was strong, and stoic, but at the same time sensitive. Greg had given him a strong sense of being, and fighting, and surviving, and yet an emotional intelligence and empathy that rivalled Greg’s own. 

Sally thought to herself, privately, that even if John wasn’t Greg’s son in every way that counted, or if Greg wasn’t as good of a friend to her, she was certain that she would have taken the other boy in anyway. She knew she had enough mouths to feed. But with Molly, and even the farm that Greg had given to John, and which John was now letting her care for, it was almost enough. 

The house was alive with riotous happiness, very dramatic and over the top in its exuberance. Everyone was trying to hide what it was that the interviews signified. What they were all losing. 

The Tributes would all go into the Arena tomorrow. This was their last hurrah. Their last moment in civilisation, the last time they would be able to interact in real-time with the rest of the world. It was going to have to be enough. 

Sally was sick to her stomach, with nerves, with sadness, and with anger. But she didn’t let it show. She couldn’t. The children were bouncing around, full of sugar and energy and hope and life. Next to her, even John was brimming with it, with happiness, and hope. 

Today, a great many people had come up to them, handing Sally gifts of food and drink. She had received sweets from the sweetshop, cake from the baker, meat from the market, and even a special little wooden knight, something the toymaker had made for her. It was for John, actually. The toymaker had made it for John, in the hope it would give him something to cling to. 

Sally wasn’t really sure if John would go for it. He was only happy with the tin soldier, really. She had tried to give him something a little softer, but the boy hadn’t gone for it, just shoving it away and leaving it alone, in favour of the beaten-up tin soldier. John had even slept with it, those three prized possessions of his. The socks were always on his feet when he slept, the book under his pillow, and the tin soldier in his arms, as he curled up alone on what had been his and Greg’s bed.

She had been sleeping here herself, she and Molly and Maya had been taking it in turns to sleep on Greg’s couch, and watching over John. John, who had nightmares every night, but when any of them were woken by John’s frantic yells, and ran in there to help the young boy, he was sitting upright as if nothing had happened, smiling nonchalantly. 

He would always apologise, and prompt them back to bed. 

Sally wasn’t even sure if he was going back to sleep. 

Inside the house, the children were all already piled onto the couch, and watching the blue haired Caesar Flickerman interview a young woman with long legs in a bright red dress. 

The woman herself was all sharp angles and harsh lines, her eyes cruel and almost vindictive-looking. Sally shuddered, and shoved Alex over on the couch, sitting down next to him, and prompting John to take a seat next to her, squeezed between the arm and her side, on the couch that sagged a little in the middle. 

Next to her, Alex shifted around, leaning forwards to rest his chin on his hands. Lottie was on the end of the couch, and Maya herself was leaning against the armrest. Molly was sitting in the solitary armchair, peering intently at the screen, and holding Sam on lap. 

On the low, roughly hewn table in the middle of the living room was a pile of food; anything that passed for luxury here. There was a bowl of sweets, and a plate full of grainy bread. There was also a bit of sliced, cold meat. 

But the tele screen occupied all of their attention. 

The woman on the screen, a Career from District One, was now finished, the blue haired host holding her arm up in victory. 

‘Who is she?’ asked John. 

‘Irene Adler,’ replied Sally. ‘She and Greg got the same score.’ 

‘Ten,’ whispered John. ‘That’s really good, isn’t it?’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Sally, matching John’s low whisper. ‘Greg is the highest scoring Tribute from District Ten. Ever.’ 

‘That gives him a good chance at winning, right?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

Next up on the screen was a tall Tribute with gently curled, ginger hair, and piercing grey eyes. 

Sally laughed, leaning over Lottie and Alex to whisper in Maya’s ear. ‘That boy’s really up Greg’s alley,’ she hissed. 

‘You reckon?’ Maya asked, smiling slightly. 

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘He always went for the leggy ones with pretty eyes. Remember that boy from eighth grade?’ 

‘Oh, yeah,’ Maya nodded. ‘But I really doubt he’ll be thinking about that.’ 

‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Sally. ‘Bloody randy bugger, he is.’ 

Maya laughed, lowly. 

It was a little odd, really. But better to be humorous about it then mournful, that was Sally’s motto. 

The man was charismatic. That much was certain. He exuded a sense of power and control, and his smile was _predatory._ Sally gulped. 

‘That’s Mycroft Holmes, isn’t it?’ asked John, looking up at Sally for confirmation for what he clearly already knew. 

‘Yes,’ replied Sally, ‘It is. He got the highest score that any Tribute has ever gotten in the history of the Games. He is also the first Tribute to score a twelve.’ 

John was silent. 

Maybe she shouldn’t have told him that. 

‘It’ll be alright,’ she tried to reassure him. ‘Look at that guy. He’s a complete ponce. He’s gonna get taken out by a strong breeze.’ 

That forced a laugh out of John. No matter how doubtful that claim was, Sally took pride in the fact that she had managed to make him laugh. Even if it was just a tiny bit. 

Greg would be proud. 

The man on the screen finished with a predatory smile, right down the camera lens. This man was charismatic, to say the least. To be honest, when Sally saw that predatory smile, and those slate-grey eyes, she saw the hawks that flew overhead sometimes during the summer, stealing away chickens left in the open. She saw the dark eyes of the prairie cats that sometimes roamed over the fields. 

It was terrifying. Sally was only glad that it wasn’t her standing in that man’s way. 

Then, of course, she remembered Greg. Greg, who would be facing off against this Tribute in the Arena. 

This wasn’t good. 

The rest of the interviews passed in a blur of people and dressed and suits and the blue hair of the host, flopping around on top of his head like some great ridiculous balloon. 

Next to Sally, John was growing tenser and tenser, the tin soldier in his hands squeezed tightly. 

Soon, it was Greg’s turn. The small girl that had also come from their District - Suzie Gates - had gone off-stage, and Greg had walked up there. 

John sharply inhaled next to Sally, as Greg stepped out under the stage lights, to the piped cheers and applause of the audience. 

‘Wow,’ said Molly, across the room. 

‘Greg looks really shiny!’ exclaimed Sam, pointing at the screen. Alex nodded his agreement, as Lottie leaned forwards, flicking hair out of her eyes. Greg was clothed in a suit, similar to the ones the male Tributes before him had been decked out in, but his right arm was encased in silver armour, just like the one he had worn for the Opening Ceremony. It was gleaming, reflective in the light, captivating and intriguing. 

And, on his lapel, he wore the same wooden pendant that he had had on a chain at the Opening Ceremony. John exhaled. 

‘Sally,’ he said, ‘Look, Greg’s wearing my pendant! The one I gave him!’ John sounded so proud of himself, and Sally beamed. 

‘That’s amazing John. See, you are with him, he has a little piece of you with him, doesn’t he?’ 

‘I suppose you’re right…’ said John, thoughtfully. 

On the screen, Greg was fully on stage now, standing next to Caesar, who shook his hand. 

‘ _Ladies and gentlemen, the man that, aside from Mycroft Holmes, has been generating quite a bit of hype, the so-called Silver Knight of District Ten, Gregory Lestrade!’_

‘Is that what Greg’s been called?’ Lottie snorted. ‘The Silver Knight?’ 

‘I think it’s cool,’ said Alex. ‘And Greg is a knight. He’s brave like a knight, too.’ 

‘He is,’ whispered John. ‘Just like in the book.’ 

Sally hummed her agreement. 

_‘Please, please, take a seat.’_ Both Greg and Caesar took a seat in the chairs provided. Greg had the crooked grin splashed across his face that had made many a heart flutter at their school. His eyes were warm brown, and looked out at the audience brightly. 

The look was entirely charming, boyishly handsome in a way even Sally could appreciate. They had done something with Greg’s hair, and his face, making him look ruggedly handsome, mature, and brave. 

_‘I’d be happy to.’_

The audience was _ooh-_ ing over Greg’s manners, which Caesar went on to comment about. Sally snorted into her cup of water. Greg was never that polite. 

The bastard had clearly turned up the charm. Even Lottie was peering at Greg as if she’d never seen him before. He was trying to win them over. The Capitol, that was. 

Sally stared at Greg. She could recognise her friend, there, but she could also make out the larger frame he had. The round of his cheeks he had been lacking often in the District, and the wider shoulders that resulted from it — muscle buildup clearly from his time with better food and training. 

They went on to discuss the costume Greg was wearing, as Greg held it up for inspection. 

‘Look!’ pointed John, to the shoulder and the hand of the armour Greg was wearing. ‘He’s got the same shape as my pendant, it’s on his hand and his shoulder!’ 

Sally narrowed her eyes, peering closer at the armoured arm, and saw that John was, indeed, correct. The armour had, hammered into the silvery metal, the same symbol that Greg had in wood on his lapel. She nudged John. 

‘That’s cool, isn’t it?’ 

‘Yeah,’ John nodded. 

_‘Greg,’_ Caesar was saying, _‘You managed to earn yourself a ten in the Gamemakers’ assessment last night. That is one of the highest scores achieved by any Tribute from your District. If not the highest. You want to let us in on any secrets? Any hidden skills? How did you earn such a high score? And don’t say you slept your way there…’_

_‘No, I wish,’_ said Greg, smiling and chuckling lowly. He tapped the side of his nose, the charming smile never falling from his face. _‘I am afraid you’ll have to wait and see. Although I will say this - I do know my way around a sword.’_

There was a peal of audience laughter. _‘No, not like that!’_ Greg protested. 

‘What does he mean?’ asked Alex, while Lottie snorted. Maya was also shaking, a little, with laughter, while Molly gasped, scandalised, and held her hands over Sam’s ears. 

‘Don’t worry,’ replied Sally. ‘I’ll tell you later.’ 

John barely looked away from the screen. 

Sally could see the boy was lapping up Greg’s appearance like a parched animal at a water trough. The longing and sadness for his father figure was pre-eminent in the boy’s eyes, and suddenly, Sally wished with a fierceness that scared her, that she could bring Greg back for John. But she didn’t think it was going to happen. No matter how hard she wished. 

Greg went on to make a joke about lifts in the Capitol, that apparently was very popular with the audience. Caesar laughed, patting him on the shoulder. In the room, there was silence. No-one seemed to get the joke. John seemed to be concentrating hard, trying to understand, but the nine-year-old didn’t. Couldn’t. 

Then, Greg mentioned John. 

‘ _And another thing,’_ said Greg, raising a finger, _‘Here, I don’t have a screaming child, trying to wake me up at every goddamn hour.’_

Another bout of laughter, as John stiffened more beside Sally. All eyes in the room were now upon John, not that the boy noticed. 

_‘True, true. Because you have a son, don’t you?’_

_‘I do indeed. And I’ve found, the only way to get my son to do anything at all, is on pain of death.’_

_‘What do you mean?’_

_‘Well, I have to make threats of death to get him to do anything. For example, my John, he sometimes doesn’t want to put his socks on. So I say; “If you don’t put your socks on, you will get frostbite in your toes, and your feet will fall off, you won’t be able to walk to get food, and you will die.”,“If you don’t go to school, you will be stupid, not be able to get anything to eat, and you will die”, And finally, my favourite —“If you don’t go to sleep right now, I will personally kill you. I have a plan, and an alibi.”’_

The piped laughter of the studio audience was loud and exuberant, the laughter of the rich and wealthy who had no idea how fucking lucky they were. 

Everyone in the room was looking at John, for prompts as to how to react. John was blinking, at the screen. 

It was funny, because Sally remembered that joke. Greg had told it to her over his kitchen table a few weeks ago, just as they were trying to make breakfast for John, Alex, and Lottie. The three had been out in the garden, playing, and Greg was recounting the previous night to Sally, when John had decided to be particularly contrary. 

The joke had been ironic, then. Because all aside from the last bit were actual possibilities. 

It wasn’t now. 

John began to laugh, his soft, uncertain, hiccuping laughs prompting everyone else in the room to join in. 

Only Sally didn’t, watching John carefully. 

The boy’s lower lip was trembling, a little, and Sally wasn’t entirely sure why. Did he miss Greg’s bad humour? Was he angry, or sad, that Greg had said those things about him?

Sally had no idea. She didn’t like not knowing. 

Caesar made a joke about the relationship between herself and Greg, and John nudged her in the side. Sally frowned, at the screen. Bastard. 

She reached over, and grasped Maya’s hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, before letting go, to hold onto John’s hand once more. 

Then, the conversation turned back to John. 

_‘But more on your son. Was he who made you that charming pendant we saw on you at the Opening Ceremony, and here with you as a pin on your lapel?’_ Caesar was saying. 

_‘Yes,’_ Greg replied. The silver-haired bastard practically stuck his chest out, and this time, Sally could see he was being genuine. Absolutely, one hundred percent honest _. ‘John is the most talented kid. He’s brilliant.’_

_‘I’m sure he would be delighted to hear that,And if he was listening, which he probably is, what would you say to him?’_

John stiffened, even more so than before, if that was at all possible. All the eyes of the room bored into the little blond’s head, and Sally suddenly wanted to sweep them all out of the room. Greg looked straight down the camera, as if he were actually there, looking at them, and it took Sally away. Her chest tightened, and next to her, John’s fingers were a vice in her own hand. 

To be honest, she had no idea when John had taken her hand, only that he had, and she was going to leave it that way if she knew what was damn good for her. John was shaking like a leaf, watching what Greg was saying and doing. 

_‘Oh. That’s easy,’_ replied Greg. 

_‘I would tell John that he is a brave little soldier. My brave little soldier. And that he is brilliant, and talented, and so handsome. I love him more than the sun and moon and stars in the sky.’_

_‘Very moving. I’m sure I speak for all of us here in saying that we hope you get back to your little boy. It’s a marvellous thing, you love him with the father’s love for his son.’_

_‘Well, he_ is _my son. He was by himself, and I adopted him. So, he_ is _my son.’_

_‘And so young. Such responsibility, and maturity, at just eighteen years old.’_

_‘Well, I have to have it. For him.’_

_‘For him. That’s right.’_

Molly was snivelling, trying to hide it in Sam’s hair. Maya was holding Sally’s hand in a vice grip, in an effort to control her own tears, and Lottie had hid her own face in her hands. Alex was looking away, frantically trying to keep from meeting anyone’s eyes. 

Sally blinked the moisture out of her eyes, and looked down at John. 

John’s eyes were dark, waves of tears clearly only just being held back. His tin soldier was gripped so tight in his lap, as was his book, that the knuckles were white, and everything about him seemed to scream. 

It was absolutely heartbreaking. 

Caesar was finished, holding Greg’s hand up above his head. _‘Ladies and gentlemen, the charming, handsome, caring and loving Gregory Lestrade, the Silver Knight!’_

As soon as Greg was gone, Sally lifted to her feet, and grasped John’s hand. John let himself be pulled up, and into Sally’s arms, and carried out into his bedroom. Tucked under his arm were the book and the tin soldier, and as soon as they crossed the threshold, and Sally set him down on his bed, tears began to pour down John’s cheeks. 

But, aside from the tears, there was nothing else. John’s face seemed completely emotionless, his lips pressed tightly together. If it weren’t for the tears pouring down his face, Sally would have thought the boy was angry. 

‘Oh, _John,_ ’ she whispered, sitting next to the boy and wrapping both arms around him. ‘John, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,’ she whispered to him. 

Molly was at the door, and she ghosted into the room to sit down next to John. 

‘John, sweetheart, it’s gonna be alright,’ she whispered. 

‘It doesn’t feel like it,’ John whimpered into Sally’s shirt. ‘I just… I want Greg back.’ 

‘Look at how proud of you he is,’ Molly said, wrapping her own arms around the blond. ‘He is so proud of you. He’s so proud to be your dad. To love you.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Sally continued. ‘He said he loved you as much as the sun and the stars and the moon. That’s pretty cool. And he’s worn that wooden pendant you gave him with everything. Isn’t that special?’ 

John nodded against her chest. 

‘I know,’ he whispered, ‘but I just want him back. It’s stupid, I know. I just…’ 

‘It’s not stupid,’ whispered Molly, her voice shaking. Sally no longer trusted herself to speak. 

There was an enormous hole. Right where Greg was supposed to be, there was this huge, gaping hole, and nothing could fix it. Nothing was mending their hearts. This was all torture. This was. It was torture - Greg was gone, he wasn’t coming back, and the Capitol was just torturing them. 

‘I love him,’ said John. ‘I love him like I loved my Mum and my Dad and I just want him back home. I just want him to come home.’ 

‘I do too,’ said Molly. ‘All of us do, too.’ 


	12. Night

As soon as Greg got off that stage, Dimmock, Clara and Calypso crowded around him, Clara wrapping an arm around his waist and Dimmock clapping him on the back. 

‘Well done, Lestrade, well done!’ praised Dimmock. 

‘You’re so popular right now,’ Calypso fluttered, her hands waving over Greg in delight.

‘You did really well,’ Clara whispered, in his ear. ‘I’m really impressed.’ 

‘Thanks, all of you,’ Greg grinned. ‘And you too, Suzie,’ he told the other Tribute, leaning around Clara. Suzie smiled, from where she was standing a little way off, Venus by her side. 

‘You pulled it off, Lestrade,’ Dimmock nodded. Greg grimaced, a little. 

‘I suppose,’ he shrugged. Next to Dimmock, Calypso still seemed to be wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘That bit, about John, a stroke of mastery.’ 

‘It wasn’t… I didn’t…’ started Greg, but he wasn’t sure how to explain exactly what had been going through his mind at the time. It certainly hadn’t been some sort of game plan. All he knew was that he wanted to say something to John. Something he knew John would hear. 

He hoped that it had helped his son. Because if he knew John, John needed to hear that. 

Greg looked away, tears suddenly threatening behind his own eyes. Around him, everyone else was talking amongst themselves, gesturing Suzie and Venus over, and walking over to the lifts. 

Clara’s arm was still around him. 

‘You okay?’ asked the shorter, dark haired stylist.

‘Yeah,’ replied Greg. 

‘It was from the heart, wasn’t it?’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Greg. ‘It really was. I just… I wanted to tell him something.’ 

Almost on instinct, Greg raised a hand to his lapel, circling the pendant that rested there gently, and smoothly. His fingers had worn the same path around the roughly hewn wooden circle time and time again. The treated wood was smooth, not only with John’s polish but now with the oils from his fingers. 

It was soothing, in a way. Soothing to do that, to be able to run his finger around that little circle and think about John. 

Clara squeezed him. ‘I’m sure John heard you, Greg. I’m sure he knows.’ 

‘What if he thinks it’s some sort of ploy? Some sort of lie to get the Capitol to like me?’ 

‘He won’t,’ said Clara. 

‘You seem very sure.’ 

‘I am sure. Because you spoke from the heart. You spoke and he would have been able to look into your eyes and see the truth. If it helps win over these fucking vultures, then all the better. But that doesn’t matter. It was genuine, and if everything you’ve told me about John is true, then he will see that. He’ll know.’ 

‘I hope so,’ said Greg, quietly. 

They had finally made their way into the lifts. Clara had to let go of his waist, but didn’t do it without a final squeeze and whisper in his ear. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?’ 

‘Alright,’ replied Greg. He knew what tomorrow was going to bring. He didn’t like it. Hell, he’d rather jump off a cliff than do what he had to do tomorrow. 

But right now, it was about being as brave as he could. As he knew how to be. 

There was silence in the lift. 

It was a complete silence, the sort of sickeningly heavy thing that made Greg want to crawl into a hole and die. It weighed heavy on his shoulders, filling the tiny space. It was a silence of knowing. Everyone here knew what was going to happen tomorrow. That they were going to be sealed into an Arena, and they almost certainly weren’t going to come out again. 

This was hell. This was actual, real hell. 

Greg looked away, at the metal side of the tiny box, as it travelled upwards. 

Next to him, Suzie was an artful statue, her hair still curled, all her makeup still painted on her face, her silvery dress floating slightly like a fairy’s. His armour was heavy on his right shoulder. 

He had no idea how he was going to take it off, he suddenly realised. The pieces had all been slotted into place through a joint effort from Clara and Paxton. 

It seemed almost fitting, Greg thought, ironically. He was trapped in a piece of armour, something which was supposed to defend him. Protect him. 

The lift doors slid open, bloody _finally,_ and Suzie was the first away, floating down the hall towards her room, and slamming the door shut behind her. Calypso followed suit, leaving just Dimmock and Greg in the entrance. 

Greg made to move away, but Dimmock reached out a hand, and landed it on his shoulder. The armour clanged. 

‘Lestrade,’ he said, ‘Let’s have a chat.’ 

‘Al… alright…’ Greg nodded, following Dimmock over to take a seat across from him in the sitting room. 

‘So,’ said Dimmock, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hands. ‘Tomorrow.’ 

‘Tomorrow,’ Greg parroted, awkwardly. 

‘Well… you did well tonight. You did.’ Dimmock began. ‘You won them over. They adore you, here, I can tell. You’ve won them over with your charms and your demeanour. 

‘You are now this dashing hero figure. The Silver Knight, you are. You’re charming, funny, loyal, and you are also a dedicated fatherly figure. Women and men all across the Capitol have been taken in by this image that you’re portraying. What makes it better is that it is actually you.’ 

‘What does that have to do with it?’ Greg snapped at Dimmock, sitting back in his seat and folding his hands over his chest. The metal of the armour pressed almost uncomfortably, coldly into his forearm. 

‘Everything, Greg,’ Dimmock protested. ‘Everything, don’t you see? Tomorrow, in that Arena, the length of time you survive all depends on how many favours you get. How many parachutes you get from benevolent sponsors who send you things. 

‘You’re well on your way to earning many, many sponsors’ favours. And that’s a good thing. You just have to keep it up.’ 

‘Keep what up?’ 

‘The charm. That crooked smile. Everything Calypso and I went through with you today - you have to do it even in the Arena. Be that charming young man, be dedicated to John, be everything Caesar called you tonight. Because if you fail, the sponsors will dry up, will go away, and you won’t survive without those parachutes.’ 

‘You think I don’t know that?!’ demanded Greg, shaking his hands in the air. ‘You think I don’t know that I need to behave and act and be a certain way?And the worst part is, that it’s all me. I’m just trying to be me, and now I look like a complete fake to all those people out in the Districts. They think I’m a big old faker. I’m just doing this to win people over here in the Capitol.’ 

‘They don’t matter.’ 

‘They do! They’re my friends!’ 

‘If they are your friends, they will know that this is genuinely you,’ Dimmock pointed out. ‘Everyone else doesn’t matter. Only the sponsors matter, right now. They are your best chance of surviving for as long as you can.’ 

Greg sighed, sinking back into his seat. ‘I know,’ he told Dimmock, ruffling his grey hair in one hand. ‘I do know.’ 

‘Alright, Lestrade. And tomorrow, when you get into that Arena, don’t go for the Cornucopia,’ Dimmock said. ‘It’s gonna be a bloodbath. You know it, I know it.’ 

‘I know,’ Greg repeated. ‘You’ve told me.’ 

‘I just want to make sure you remember it. Because Tributes have told me before that they know it and then they get killed less than an hour in by some Career because they tried to go for an axe or a spear.’ 

Greg looked up at Dimmock. The other man had a hand over his eyes, stress creases marring his forehead. 

The lights in the room were dim, the shimmering from the Capitol falling over their faces and starkly brilliant in the room. 

‘Lestrade. Greg. I do want you to survive,’ said Dimmock. ‘I do want you to get out of there. I know you don’t have much of a chance, unless Mycroft Holmes drops dead from old age or something, but I do want you to get out. More than I should. More than I’ve wanted any other Tribute to get out in a long while. 

‘I knew your father. He was a great, great man. He was a good man, as well. Always there for me. Always helping out those who needed it. Brave, too. Knew how to handle himself, knew how not to be a coward.

‘I don’t want you to go, because I know that if he was still alive today, then his heart would break to see you having to go through this.’ 

‘How did you know my father?’ asked Greg, quietly. 

Dimmock sighed, and leaned back as well, looking out the window. ‘Your father was involved with something. Something I’d heard of only really in passing. I didn’t know anything about it. I still don’t know. But he was with something. Or someone. Some movement.

‘He came up to me, one day. And he asked me… well… he asked me if I wanted to be a part of something that he said was bigger than himself. Bigger than us.

‘I said no. I didn’t want to stick my nose out too far. Call me a coward, call me whatever you like, but just understand that I had only really gotten out of the Arena a few years back. And I’d watched other children, some older than me, go into that Arena and be killed in two seconds flat. 

‘I wasn’t… I wasn’t in a good place.’ 

‘What did he do?’

‘Well,’ said Dimmock, ‘he left it. He shrugged, and said; maybe next time. 

‘The next time I saw him, he was on the streets. He had you in his arms, he was living in this tiny hovel of a place, and he had this horribly devastated look on his face. He told me his love, your mother, had died giving birth to you. 

‘But the funny thing was, he was still smiling. Still smiling, still happy, and he was surviving. He was surviving so strongly that I reckon he would have won a Games, had he ever been Reaped. He was like a sort of vigilante - he stopped people who tried to do bad things, he hunted for all your food, out in the plains. Could cook anything, he could. Rattlesnake, prairie dog, you name it, your Dad could cook it up and make it taste good.’ 

Dimmock was smiling at some memory. 

‘He taught me a good many things about how to fight. He was a Peacekeeper, once, he told me. Before he became disillusioned. 

‘We were good mates.’ 

Dimmock looked down at his hands, suddenly. 

‘Then, one day, he just disappeared. You did too. It wasn’t until a few years ago, when I saw you with John at the Market near your farm, that I realised you were still alive. You were still alive and kicking, and with a son of your own, to boot,’ Dimmock laughed, ironically. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you at first. Thought you were a ghost come back from the dead, what with your silver hair. Just like your father’s.’ 

Greg smiled. ‘Yeah,’ he nodded, ‘My Dad did have pretty grey hair. It’s one of my earliest memories of him.’ 

Dimmock pursed his lips in an imitation of a smile. 

‘I want you to survive, Lestrade,’ he said. ‘Your Dad was a good friend to me. A good friend who didn’t pressure me when times were tough, but who also let me support him when his going got a bit rough. This would… this would break his heart.’ 

‘I know,’ whispered Greg. ‘I know. And I think it’s breaking my heart, too.’ 

‘Mmm,’ hummed Dimmock. ‘I ain’t surprised.’ 

There was a heavy silence. A foreboding silence, one that made Greg’s hairs stand on end. 

‘You won’t go out onto the roof tonight,’ said Dimmock, abruptly. ‘I don’t know why you did it last night, but tonight, enough. Just get some rest, Lestrade. As much as you can, because when you get into that Arena tomorrow, you won’t be getting as much sleep as you need.’ 

‘Okay,’ Greg nodded. 

He hadn’t even thought of going up to the roof tonight, but had sort of thought that he might end up there. Just from habit, or perhaps out of something else. He did harbour a slight hope that Mycroft was going to be up there. 

He was dying to talk to the other Tribute, he realised. Dying to see the other Tribute, to ask him a few last-minute questions. 

What those questions would be, Greg had no idea. But they would have been questions. 

‘Go to bed, Lestrade.’ 

Greg nodded, robotically, getting to his feet and basically stumbling back to his room. 

***

Greg couldn’t sleep. Not even a tiny bit. 

He rolled and he tossed and he turned and not even the lovely, warm, soft pillows and the downy quilt he was under could get him to sleep. There was a horrible chill in his bones - something he hadn’t felt in years and years. It chilled him through to his core; the sensation that everything was wrong. Absolutely everything. 

The thoughts that were racing through his mind wouldn’t fucking stop. It was like a nonstop train, racing out of control, off the tracks and straight through a field of cows. 

All these things in his head; how John might have to watch him die in the next few days, how Suzie was going to die and he might not even be able to do anything about it. Mycroft’s face, Mycroft’s eyes, Mycroft’s entire fucking existence. 

Mycroft’s horrifying ability to hunt him down. The other Tribute knew him, had been inside his skull somehow. He knew what Greg was likely to do. The actions Greg was going to take. 

It was going to be a fucking shit show. 

And John. Tiny, little John, left behind in the District, having to watch all this on the tele screen, and not being able to do anything. This was going to be hell for him, and all because Greg was kind. Too kind. Too kind and too stupidly brave, just like his stupid father who had managed to get himself killed. 

Sally, who was angry all the time, filled with such rage, that Greg could not understand. The entire thing was so unfair. Not just to him, or Suzie, but to everyone. All the families of all the Tributes, those who would get slain, and even those Victors. The ones who came back home changed. Never to be the same again. 

Greg knew what it did to those boys and girls who came back out. 

He had seen the survivor’s guilt sweep through them on their Victory tours, and in the way that they appeared on the tele screens every time the Games came around. The ones who turned to morphling, or some other drug, the ones who drunk, like Dimmock. The ones who killed themselves, always honoured with a state funeral as if they were some sort of war hero. 

But in reality, they were a reminder to all the Tributes, and all those who might get Reaped. They reminded the Districts that no one won. Not even the Victors, the people who were supposed to win. 

Throwing himself upright, Greg rolled off the bed. 

His room was cast entirely in darkness, as he began to pace backwards and forwards. The shades were down on the window, so the entire room was basically pitch black. 

Greg was hardly ever like this. 

It was a bad example for John; letting all those bad things overcome him, instead of laying them to rest and getting a good night’s sleep like he should. 

When Greg bumped into the side table that rested next to the bed, it felt like a hammer in his hip. The thing impacted solidly against him, making an all too loud thump, thunk in the darkness. 

The things on top clanked and bumped and fell to the ground. Something clattered, a glass something, and glowed as it fell face-down on the floor of the room. 

Suddenly, the room was flooded with light, as the shades rose to reveal the entire of the Capitol in all its silvery, glowing glory. The spires of the buildings reached high into the air, and the streets bustled with those people in their electric shades of blue and green and pink. 

It was almost sickening. 

Greg blinked in the sudden light, leaning down to pluck the remote that had clearly done the damage off the ground, and peered at it. 

Expecting to simply see a few buttons, instead he was presented with a menu, announcing a range of options including music, window, and location. 

Location. The last one sounded interesting, and a little strange. 

Greg tapped on that option, which led him to another image. The image was of a map, of some sort, of all the Districts and the Capitol. 

_‘Please select a location, to zoom in.’_

A soft voice emanated from the remote, and Greg almost startled with the sound of it. 

Immediately, in response, before he could think it through, Greg tapped on District Ten. The next image to come up was, of course, a more detailed map of District Ten, and Greg immediately tapped on his own region. The small town barely showed up, and his hill even less so, but then the map zoomed in even further, to reveal an even more detailed map of the town, and the hills surrounding it. There was a spider-web of interconnected dots, spread liberally around. 

There was a single dot, right near his home. Just down the cliff, right by where he knew a glade of small, scruffy trees had stood against the harsh winds blowing through that area. Greg immediately tapped on it, and suddenly, the window was dark again. 

The window was dark, because an image was coming into focus. The view, right from that glade, looking down onto the town. The stars in the sky were familiar, their bright, bold colours bathing the world in a view of silver. The town was nestled in the valley, a dark shape lit up only by a few, sparse lights. 

It was all heartbreakingly familiar. 

_‘Slide finger to move view,’_ instructed the remote. 

Immediately, on instinct, Greg did so. Sliding a finger, the view moved counter-clockwise, panning around until it was looking up the hill, right up at his house. 

His home. 

The place was entirely dark. It must be late at night. 

There was no movement, absolutely none, aside from the swaying of the rope swing on the tree branch next to the house. But it was his house. It wasn’t even just a photograph, it seemed like it was actual, live video feed. 

The familiar shape of his home was striking on this screen, and it made Greg want home with a vicious sense. His heart felt like it was full of knives, rending his flesh apart. That familiar roof, which he had laid down himself. Their shoes, his work boots still sitting on the stoop, next to John’s two pairs. Molly’s was there as well, as were Sally’s. 

It looked like they were both taking care of John. Just like he had asked them to. Because tonight would have been just as hard on John as it had been on him. 

Greg took a deep breath, and reached for the remote, about to turn the image off. It wouldn’t do to keep looking at it, it would only make him feel worse. 

He wished for home with a vengeance that was tearing him apart, and he was already blinking back tears. 

And then the door of the house creaked open. 

The image of his home was actually still quite small, on balance. It was a tiny shape, sitting up there on the peak of the hill, but Greg could clearly make out that someone was coming out the door. 

A small someone, with the shape and build he was familiar with. 

And he was headed this way. 

John, tucking his red-socked feet into his shoes, gripping his book and his soldier tightly to his chest, was treading down the hill. It seemed he couldn’t sleep, either. 

Greg breathed out a shaky exhale. His hand froze on the remote. 

John was meandering down the hill, and seemed to have found a spot he wanted to sit, and sat there. The blond seemed to just be looking out over the horizon, holding the book. 

His shape was dark against the hill, a study in lack of movement. He looked cold, and Greg just wanted to reach through the window, to John, and take the boy in his arms and hold him tight. He wanted to rub circles into that small back. 

Greg realised he had dropped the remote, and had actually stepped closer, laying a hand on the window, right underneath John. 

He exhaled, breathing slowly, and deeply, in an effort to hold back his tears. 

John didn’t do the same. 

Even from this distance, Greg saw when John broke in two. He saw when his little boy, his brave little soldier, clutched the book and the toy to his chest, and curled up as tightly as he could, and let his shoulders begin to shake. 

His soldier, through and through. He didn’t want to let Molly or Sally hear him crying, so he came out here in the dead of night to do it. 

‘No…’ Greg whispered, clawing at the glass desperately. This was an exquisite kind of torture, right here, right now. As horrible as having his nails pulled out, as having a stake driven through his arm, or up his arse. 

John was _crying._ His fucking _son_ was _crying_ on the grass in the dead of night and Greg was useless, sitting here hundreds of kilometres away and he couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t do a damn thing. 

‘No, please… No, John, please don’t cry… no please…’ he begged, into the silence of the room, unable to keep back his tears.

John had curled up even tighter, sobs wracking his form, in addition to shivers and shudders of cold. 

There was a sort of horrific irony in this. A sort of horrible, horrific irony in the fact that in just a few days, John might be the one having to go through this. Having to live through this horrific torture of an event. Having to sit there, on the other side of the tele screen, and watch Greg suffer, struggle, and probably die. 

And John would be sitting there, helpless. 

‘No…’ Greg whispered. 

Tears were just streaming down his cheeks, now, as his knees buckled under him. He kept at the glass, clawing and scratching at it almost desperately, as he let himself fall to pieces. 

Perhaps this was some sort of torture from the Capitol, disguised as a freedom. Some sort of taunting, reminding the Tributes in this tower of everything that they had lost. 

Greg was crying, sobbing, into the glass. 

Above him, John was doing the same and he couldn’t do a goddamn thing. He couldn’t reach through the glass. He couldn’t reach out and hug his own fucking _son_ and make it better the way he had promised. Because he had promised, when he took John in, to always help him. To always be there for him. 

He had failed. 

That was a horrible thought. 

This, right here, was him failing. 

Greg could be forgiven for not hearing the door open behind him.

‘Oh Greg,’ came a soft whisper, from just inside the door, before the door was shut behind the intruder. 

Calypso glided softly into the room, her hair loose and clothed in a soft, silken gown. She bent down next to Greg, taking the remote from where it had clattered to the floor, and de-activating the window, letting it slide shut with the darkness of shades. 

Then, the escort dropped the remote, and gently placed an arm around the young man’s shaking shoulders. Greg had managed to turn, to curl around his knees, and press his silver-haired head into the crook between them. 

His shoulders were still shaking, gently. 

Calypso was ashamed to admit she had no idea what to do. She didn’t know what to do for this boy, who, up until now, had seemed so strong. Had been so strong, always making the right choices and being brave. Being brave and being kind. So, so kind, that she didn’t think she’d ever seen anything like it before in her life. 

This boy didn’t deserve to go into the Arena. 

She had been reared with the idea in mind that they did all deserve it. That those who went into the Arena were honoured, that they were cherished and it was a wonderful honour to be chosen. 

But this wasn’t an honour. 

This was a man who was kind and brave and who had been taken from his son. That tiny little boy she had only just gotten a glimpse of on the window. That boy had lost a father thanks to these Games, and it had made her question everything she thought she knew. 

But now. Now Greg needed an arm around his shoulders, a pat on the back, and a tight squeeze. Because that was all Calypso knew how to give. 

***

The morning dawned cold and early, with a horrible sinking feeling in the air. One of the first things Greg felt was the dried residue of tears on his cheeks, and remembered the gentle sensation of someone nudging him back to bed. 

Who had it been?

Not Dimmock, he was… too Dimmock. 

Not Suzie, she wasn’t strong enough to help him up. If he didn’t know better, he thought it would have been Clara, but it couldn’t possibly have been. Not even remotely possible. 

So that left Calypso. The air headed escort who didn’t seem to possess much deep thinking, certainly not enough to understand what he had needed last night. Not enough to understand what he was losing through these idiotic Games. 

She thought it was an honour. 

Greg blinked, and decided to leave the mystery for another time. Another moment when he could address it more coherently. 

Sitting upright, Greg wiped the last bit of residue from his eyes, and looked across at the window. The shades had raised, in the morning, leaving the light from the Capitol pouring in. Down on the streets, he could see people moving about, even more frenzied than last night. 

Now, they were shifting about and bustling back and forth with a sort of excited, invigorated energy that made Greg sick. It was like they were all going to watch some big sport. 

Which it was to them, Greg supposed. 

Meandering out to breakfast, Greg took up his plate and begun to load it up with food. This might be the last time that he saw any sort of real food in bountiful plenty, so he’d better fill up now, or else he would starve. 

He began to shovel it into his mouth, his previous manners entirely forgotten. Beside him, Suzie was doing the same, but silence reigned over the table. It was a heavy, awkward silence, just as it had been last night. No one mentioned his episode last night. 

Greg looked up from his plate, briefly, to look at Dimmock. The man didn’t notice. 

But when his eyes slid over to Calypso, who, this morning, was done up in sunny yellow colours, her eyes met his, just for a moment, and then slid away. They refused to look at Greg, and Greg knew. 

It had been her. 

Somehow, for some reason, it had been her. 

Greg wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

‘They’re taking you out to the Arena in a hovercraft,’ said Dimmock, suddenly. ‘We have to meet them up on the roof. Ours departs in about half an hour, alright?’ 

‘Are we going with the other Tributes?’ asked Suzie. 

Dimmock nodded. ‘Yes.’ 

Greg steeled himself. 

Half an hour later found them on the familiar terrain of the roof, but instead of going into the garden, Dimmock and Calypso led them over to the other side, where a large hovercraft was perched like a great bird of prey. 

‘Come on,’ snapped the voice of a Peacekeeper, beside the ramp leading up to the hovercraft. ‘You’re late.’ 

‘Alright, alright,’ Dimmock said, ‘Just a moment.’ 

Grabbing both Greg an Suzie, he dragged them a few metres away. Calypso followed. 

‘Listen to me,’ Dimmock said. ‘Remember what I told you. Be aware, don’t go to the Cornucopia, and when you get in there, run. Find a spot to hide and stay there as long as you can. Don’t engage the Careers. You got that.’ 

‘Yep,’ said Suzie. Greg just nodded, still unable to speak. 

‘Good,’ said Dimmock, softly. ‘Both of you… just… survive. You can both do it. I know it.’ 

‘Okay,’ said Suzie, softly. 

‘You’ll both be fantastic,’ whispered Calypso, her voice trembling. ‘You’ll both be fabulous, marvellous, magnificent. Incredible.’ 

With that, she seemingly couldn’t take anymore, and flounced off. 

‘And Greg,’ said Dimmock, after a moment. ‘Just… survive.’ 

Greg nodded. 

Then, it was time up. 

‘Let’s move it!’ the Peacekeeper snapped, grabbing both Greg and Suzie, and shoving them roughly into place on the hovercraft. 

Greg was, of course, shoved into a seat next to Mycroft, and Suzie was sat right across from him. 

Of course, that meant the entire length of Mycroft’s body was pressed against his own. 

Next to him, the Tribute was a long, supple line of muscle and tension, and Greg turned his head, meeting Mycroft’s slate eyes. He was in no emotional state to deal with what he saw there. He couldn’t. He just looked. Looked, for the last time without the other boy trying to kill him, as they took off. 

Mycroft’s eyes were cold, calm, and still. He didn’t blink, didn’t move, just looked. His eyes were still that captivating mix of grey, slate and black. This close, Mycroft’s breaths ghosted over his face, and the supple line of the other Tribute’s body was right against him. It was the most contact they had ever shared. 

But there was nothing arousing about this. There was nothing arousing about Mycroft being this close. Nothing at all. 

What was about to happen was horrifying. Horrible. Gone were those quiet, shared moments on the roof, that brief fiery touch of Mycroft’s finger on Greg’s chin. 

No. 

This was about to become a battle. The biggest Greg had ever faced in his life. This was the last time he would be this close to the Tribute who had sparked such strong arousal in Greg, strong arousal rising from attraction, to this man’s mind, body and spirit, sparked by the desperate last days before a live execution played for sport.

Mycroft’s grey eyes were boring into his own. Greg was the one who finally looked away, when they jolted into the air. 

Then, they were moving. Flying, over the surroundings. 

Everything seemed to fade away, a little. The only thing that was still solid and real was the line of Mycroft’s body, pressed against his own. Greg barely registered it when an attendant shot a tracker under his skin, barely noticed it when they jolted to a landing. 

Taking a final glance at Mycroft’s eyes, Greg was ushered out of the hovercraft, and pushed down a concrete tunnel, a door slid shut behind him.

Following the line of the tunnel, slowly, his mind came to grips with what he had briefly spotted in Mycroft’s eyes. Intrigue, fascination, predatory awareness, a sense of knowing something. Everything. 

Greg blinked away that final image, as he came to an open space. 

The open space was a small, concrete box, and in the centre, a long, clear tube. But standing in front of that tube was the last person he had expected to see here. 

‘Clara!’ he exclaimed, sprinting into the room and throwing his arms around the other woman. For some reason, he was so relieved to see her here, so thankful that she had come. ‘What are you doing here?’ 

‘Calypso told me to come,’ Clara shrugged. ‘You’re allowed one member of your team in here with you, and Dimmock was going to do it, but Calypso said I should be here.’ 

‘That was… that was nice of her,’ Greg said, frowning a little, but again, decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

‘So,’ she said, raising the package she had in her hands. ‘I’m here to give you your outfit for the Arena, and then get you ready to head up there.’ 

‘Have you seen it yet?’ asked Greg. She shook her head. 

‘No,’ she replied. ‘It’s a huge secret. I have no idea what’s up there. Come on, let’s get you changed.’ 

The outfit that she handed him was easy to change into, a forest green top, a pair of loose, black slacks that reached to his ankles, with quite a few pockets, and a pair of boots that weren’t so dissimilar to the ones he wore back in the District. 

Clara took his pendant out of his pocket, re-attached the chain, and then, slipped it around his neck, pressing it to his chest. 

Greg placed his own hands over her own on his chest, looking down at this woman. 

‘I suppose you’ll have to do this for someone else next year,’ he told her, laughing ironically. Her expression cracked, her eyes welling with tears. 

‘Don’t say that,’ she whispered, ‘Please don’t say that.’

‘It’s true, Clara,’ said Greg. ‘Don’t sugarcoat it.’ 

‘I’m not,’ she protested. ‘I just… I…’ 

‘I know,’ Greg sighed, letting out a shaky breath. ‘I’m scared, Clara. I am.’ 

‘I’m scared for you.’ 

‘I don’t want to do this. I want to go home.’ 

‘I want you to go home,’ she whispered. ‘I would do anything for that to happen. To be able to get that for you. To get your home to your precious little boy.’ 

‘Clara,’ said Greg, ‘Will you do something for me? If I’m gone… when I’m gone, can you get my pendant back?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘Yes, of course. Do you want me to get it to John?’ 

‘Please,’ Greg whispered. ‘I want him to have it back. He needs it back, I think.’ 

She didn’t reply. 

_‘Please, Tributes, enter the tube.’_ The quiet voice of the announcer came through some speaker, hidden somewhere in the room. 

‘Greg,’ said Clara, stepping back, and holding Greg’s right hand tightly in her own. ‘I’m still betting on you, Silver Knight, you know.’

Greg gave her a wry smile, letting go of her hand. 

‘That’s just a nickname,’ Greg mumbled, ‘A stupid moniker the Capitol came up with to make me into something I’m not.’ 

‘You are,’ she said. ‘You are just as brave and noble and kind and wise as any Knight. You go out there and show them, alright?’ 

Greg stepped back into the tube. 

‘Alright,’ was the last thing he said, before the tube came down, and sealed itself around him. He could still see through, watched Clara step closer and lay a hand on the tube. 

He did the same, matching his hand with hers. 

She was crying now, tears pouring down her face, even as the tube hissed, and the platform under his feet began to rise. 

It rose through concrete, sealing him in darkness before opening at the top, opening to reveal the Arena, and reveal him to the Arena. 

The light flooded Greg’s eyes, forcing him to raise a hand to look around, blocking the majority of it from his pupils, as they expanded to compensate. Looking around, Greg quickly realised that it was like no other Arena he had ever seen before in his life. 

_‘Sixty seconds. Tributes, be prepared. Do not move from your podiums until the cannon sounds. May the odds be ever in your favour.’_


	13. Arena

Greg looked over at where the voice was coming. 

The Cornucopia this year was like nothing Greg had seen in previous years. In previous years, it had been a huge, metal monstrosity in the shape of a horn, but this year, it was a clock tower. Quite literally, an enormous, old-style structure from before Panem with a clock ticking it’s way along a cream coloured face, worn through with years of use. The numbers were barely visible, but they were there, and the seconds ticked past towards twelve noon precisely. 

On the clock were the three arms, the skinny second hand, the short, wide hour hand, and the longer minute hand. All were delicately curved, worn from their time in the sun and rusted, but designed into intricate arrows of black metal. The points were wickedly sharp. 

At the base of the clock tower was, instead of a closed base, an open area with four pillars holding the tower up. Underneath it were the best weapons and resources, rich foods and delicate fruits and vegetables. Fanning out from it were the rest of the supplies, various weapons, supplies and other bits and pieces scattered here and there, of lessening value and use the further from the clock tower they were. 

All the Tributes were in a circle around the clock tower, next to him was a boy from District Five, and on his other side, a girl from District Eleven. Directly across the way, he could see Suzie, through the arches of the clock tower. And next to her was Mycroft. 

Mycroft’s slate eyes were darting back and forth, between their surroundings and the rest of the Tributes, as well as a few glances at the Cornucopia. He looked focused, as if his mind was racing at a million kilometres an hour and Greg had no chance whatsoever of keeping up. 

Looking away, Greg observed his surroundings himself, briefly. 

The sky was entirely overcast, a shadowy grey that both didn’t look like there was going to be a storm, and yet gave that sort of dim quality to the light. Instead of the Arena being a scene of nature, like it usually was; a desert or a forest or even a river system, they were in a city. 

This was a dead city, a city in the midst of being reclaimed by nature. All the skyscrapers that surrounded them were falling down, some even leaning against each other. Moss grew in every nook and cranny, and the roads had ruptured to let ivy, moss and trees grow up. The only thing that looked somewhat more well-maintained was the clock tower - the rest of the city was entirely broken apart, taken to pieces. 

It was very reminiscent of the cities before Panem, in the old world. In fact, Greg wouldn’t be surprised if that was indeed where they were, in a city from before Panem’s rise to power. This city had clearly been abandoned, in favour of newer, better prospects. 

Cars littered the roads, their glass gone, and vines and mosses making their way steadily back inside. Greg glanced to his left, and saw that one road between two tall skyscrapers was entirely flooded, puddles of briny water covering the road underneath. He could also hear the rushing of water, somewhere off in the distance there must be somewhere for water to be moving around in here. 

There was no sunlight to speak of. 

The entire place was permeated with just the odd, greyish light, casting the skyscrapers, brownstones and packed-in, terraced houses in shades of the colour. It bleached everything from their features, as well, the other Tributes lacking the colour that they had been. 

Greg could only just see Mycroft’s hair shine with ginger ever so slightly, looking more auburn than ginger in this light. Trees were sprouting from the oddest of places, from perched atop skyscrapers and poking out of the wreckages of half-destroyed terraced homes. 

As far as Greg could tell, they were at some sort of intersection. The clock tower was perched right in the middle of an overgrown island in the middle of the road intersection, and their podiums had all been built on top, where the cars would go. They were surrounded on all four sides by enormous skyscrapers with hulking skeletons, the glass long ago disappeared. These skyscrapers were also teeming with moss and vines, and even trees growing out of their windows, on their roofs and out of their balconies and windows. 

There was an enormous, peeling billboard pasted to the side of one of the buildings, an advertisement for some sort of shiny product, an attractive woman, unnaturally thin, holding it up and gesturing to it with a smile. None of the words on the product could be made out, and the product itself had peeled away, along with one of the model’s eyes and half her face. 

Next to that was the road that was covered in what looked like shallow, or even not-so-shallow water, reflecting the nasty grey light. However, the rushing water was coming from a different direction, just to the forwards right, as if some great waterfall was off in that direction. The sound was soft, but rumbling. 

_‘Forty seconds, Tributes,’_ said the calm voice, emanating from the clock tower. 

Greg closed his eyes, letting the atmosphere sweep over him.

Nerves roiled in the pit of his belly, particularly as he remembered Suzie, right next to Mycroft. That particular pairing was not going to end well. 

Greg took a deep, calming breath. Everyone was watching him. Everyone, including John, was sitting back home and crossing their fingers and bloody hoping that he was going to pull through. 

He wasn’t, but he was going to give it a damn good shot for John. 

He’d promised that much, at least. 

The weight and coolness of the wooden pendant on his chest was calming, grounding, even. 

Greg opened his eyes, sweeping his gaze over the tableau. 

The hulking skyscrapers in every direction were not much help, but the roads between them? More likely. So, what direction should he go? Should he try the direction of the sound of rushing water? Or should he give the road with the puddles a shot? 

Maybe he could try the road directly behind himself. It was closer, and it looked like he might actually have a shot to go somewhere, a clean, straight shot without having to worry about anyone else. 

His mind made up, Greg took a brief glance behind him to check the passage was clear, and then turned his mind to the Cornucopia. 

Right in front of him, perhaps ten metres away, was a fluorescent yellow backpack. He didn’t have any clue what was in there - it could be anything from a kettle and some string to a full survival kit with a medical pack and water bottle. 

Then, he saw it. Leaning against the pillar of the clock tower, right up against it, was a beautiful sword. Capitol in design, it looked like it had perfect balance, and a hilt that was left unadorned, wrapped with a practical leather. It was sheathed in leather, as well, a hardened shell emblazoned with the Capitol symbol. 

_‘Twenty seconds, Tributes.’_

Greg’s stomach reared up, again, as he eyed off the sword. 

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he got a glimpse of Mycroft. Mycroft was staring at him, directly, that same predatory look back in the other Tribute’s eyes. His every expression and mannerism was focused on the task ahead; which unfortunately seemed to be hunting Greg. 

Next to him, Suzie was also looking at Greg, her eyes wide, and her hands shaking with nerves. 

Greg had to do something. Had to help her, somehow. 

So, he loosened his posture, and, determinedly ignoring Mycroft, smiled at her, gently. She stared at him in incredulity, as if she couldn’t quite comprehend what it is he was doing. 

But he was smiling at her. 

And, on instinct, Suzie calmed, loosening her own hands and treating Greg to her own, slightly shy, unsure smile. Greg nodded at her. 

It was going to be alright, was what that nod said. It wasn’t… that was a lie… but it was enough for her. She nodded back, and then glanced behind her at a route towards the sound of rushing water. Good. 

_‘Ten seconds, Tributes.’_

Greg let out a breath through his nose, getting ready to run. Adrenaline flooded his muscles. 

_‘Nine.’_

_‘Eight.’_

_‘Seven.’_

That, was, of course, when he spotted Moriarty. The District Two Career was licking his lips, almost lasciviously at Greg. 

_‘Six.’_

No. Greg couldn’t be distracted. 

_‘Five.’_

He was going to grab that bag, then make for the road behind him, and the cover of the large tree that stood in the middle, rupturing the road. 

_‘Three.’_

_‘Two.’_

_‘One.’_

And the cannon sounded. 

_‘Let the 74th Hunger Games begin.’_

The field was already a flurry of movement. Greg zeroed in on the backpack, and grabbed it, rapidly, flinging it onto his back with little care as to where it landed. 

A few metres in, Greg also spotted a piece of tarp. 

That could be useful, particularly at night, just to keep the cold out of his bones. He couldn’t trust he would find or have something in the backpack. 

Reaching out, Greg grabbed the tarp as well, its electric blue colour brightly distinctive. 

A thump, and he saw a boy from District Eight bearing down on him, a dagger in his hand, and a cut already bleeding from his eye. 

‘Shit,’ swore Greg, throwing himself backwards as the boy lunged. 

The boy’s dagger landed between Greg’s legs, a damn close call to his cold bollocks. It was a rough landing on the mossy asphalt, a shot of pain flinging its way up Greg’s wrist as the heel of his hand was skinned. 

The other Tribute let out a grunt of frustration as the dagger glanced off the asphalt, sliding away with a horrible screeching sound. He was so close that Greg could feel his breaths on his face, and it was awful. 

Then, of course, those breaths froze, and the boy collapsed, his eyes glassy, nearly on top of Greg, who scrambled out of the way. A dagger had sprouted from the boy’s back, a large, hefty thing with quite a bit of apparent weight to it. 

Greg pushed himself to his feet, gripping the tarp with one hand, and the backpack that had come free from his back in the other. He reached down, and tore the dagger from the boy’s back, just as the cannon sounded, and gripped it tightly in the hand that was also attempting to flick his backpack into a more secure place on his back. 

Just a moment upright let him see Irene, who had what looked like about fifty daggers and knives sprouting from her hands. Her face was almost maniacal in its glee, and she had blood already splattered across her clothes and on her boots was grey matter that looked suspiciously like the inside of someone’s head. 

She let out a horrible snarl, and raised another dagger, and that was enough for Greg. 

Greg leapt backwards, turning and sprinting as fast as he possibly could to get out of her range. It had seemed like she was quite far away, it would only take a few seconds for him to cover enough ground so she wouldn’t be able to reliably take the shot. She also had better, more juicy targets to worry about than one fleeing District Ten boy. 

At least, that was what Greg was betting on, as he sprinted desperately for the road he had chosen before. He didn’t hear anyone pursuing him, so that was always a good sign.

He hoped Suzie had made it, as well, just as he reached the cover of the big tree, and took a deep gasp of breath, in relief. No-one had followed him, so Greg rapidly scaled the tree. 

The bark was rough under his fingers as he pulled himself up into the branches of the thick oak. The foliage, as he climbed higher, was enough to stop anyone passing by underneath from spotting him at that angle. 

Up higher in the tree, Greg poked his head out from the branches, and could get a good look at what was happening back at the clock tower. 

The intersection was still a flurry of movement - he must have been one of the first to get away. And, clearly, one of the luckier ones. Back at the intersection, the four Careers were moving basically in tandem, their movements schooled and precise. 

He watched as Janine, who had the sword in her hand, gleaming dully in the grey light, plunged it into the back of a fleeing young girl, her dark hair thrashing as she collapsed to the ground. Janine drew the blade out, bloodied. 

Irene was still tossing about her daggers after fleeing Tributes, landing a few, missing a few. 

At least two Tributes were felled as Greg watched. 

Moriarty was darting back and forth, a long whip in his hand with a strange end that glinted oddly in the grey light. It probably had metal bits embedded into the end - Greg had seen it before when he was young, at the public floggings. 

Then, Greg spotted Mycroft. Mycroft who was faster than Greg could believe, a razor thin rapier in one hand, and a dagger in the other. Mycroft’s coat had been entirely abandoned, letting the other Tribute’s lean figure take full precedence in the lower light conditions. Mycroft was a study in rapid motion, the transit of a flitting shadow with auburn hair darting across the square. The rapier in his hands darted out like the tongue of a sand python, and his aim was always dead on. 

And, of course, he landed every swing he took, striking down an older boy, and then a younger girl in rapid succession, one across the back as he tried to flee. Then, finally, another, the last Greg saw before he ducked back into cover, taking in harsh breaths through his nose. 

Seeing Mycroft in action was something else. 

The other Tribute was trained, in a way that Greg hadn’t ever been. He was the epitome of a predator, Greg was just a little skilled and trained. Where Greg knew how to wield a sword, Mycroft made it into an art form. He made his motions look like dancing, so much so that it gave Greg pause. 

He had to get out of there. It was as simple as that. 

If he wasn’t done by the time the survivors had gotten away from Mycroft’s massacre, then he was a dead man walking. 

Mycroft could probably smell him, could see his exact path. And could hunt him down with an unerring, exact focus that he had displayed during training. And he was likely wont to do so. 

Hadn’t Mycroft said it himself?

He was intrigued by Greg. Interested by him. He wanted to _consume_ Greg, and if that didn’t transfer into a single-minded ability to hunt Greg, he wold be utterly astonished. 

Greg let out a rapid exhale from his nose, trying to tamp down the panic rapidly rising in his chest. He stuffed the tarp into his fluorescent yellow pack, and took the knife in hand, before dropping from the tree, ensuring it was between himself and the clock tower behind them at all times. 

Then, he took a moment to just strategise. There was foliage growing right by the destroyed skyscrapers, and he could see that further down, the skyscrapers morphed into smaller, squatter buildings, living spaces and whatnot, as well as less-important office spaces. He could make for there, and run along that space, under the cover of the mosses dripping down the sides of buildings and forming a sort of canopy with the trees that copiously lined the space. 

It was so crowded with nature, it was practically a forest. 

Gripping the knife in a loose grip, Greg began to sprint. 

Just a glance behind him showed that the massacre at the clock tower hadn’t stopped, Mycroft’s shadowy form just a blur, and Moriarty’s following a close second. 

The two girls bristled now with weapons, with daggers and knives and swords and even a bow and arrow. 

Greg sprinted, and sprinted, and sprinted. 

The road was going up an incline, heading towards some unknown peak. Under the cover of the foliage, Greg knew he couldn’t be seen by those back at the clock tower, and it gave him the confidence to run as fast and as hard as he damn could, and not concern himself with a knife or an arrow in his back. 

Breaths poured through Greg’s system, as he inhaled and exhaled as forcefully as he possibly could, as if he could cram the blood through his veins. His feet pounded over asphalt, root and moss, ivy tendrils reaching out for him, and dead leaves crunching and crackling. 

The sound of the rumbling water had died down, leaving only the soon of his breaths in his ears, and the pounding of blood and his heart, in time with his feet on the pavement. His legs felt like jelly, already, the base of his belly burning, but he endured. 

He ran past multiple skyscrapers, alleys between them closed off, choked with vines and leaves and tree matter. 

Greg felt like he had been running for at least twenty minutes by the time he allowed himself to stop. He had run past countless trees, all in an effort to put some distance between himself and that… that _predator_ that laid back in the clock tower square. 

That hunter, a study in shadows and light, darkness and brightness, was going to find him. Eventually. But that wasn’t going to be today. 

Greg slowed to a brisk, careful walk, his heart pounding, and the breaths panted in and out of his lungs. His sides and his legs were burning, and that had easily been the longest ten minutes of his life. But he had put distance between himself and the square. 

There was nothing to hear except himself, and that was a comfort to Greg. He was alone. Aside from the undoubtably countless cameras following him, he was alone. 

Sure, there was a hunter after him, a Tribute who possessed something… more. An almost supernatural sixth sense. But that was fine. 

Greg had put enough distance and time between himself and the others that if there was someone after him, he would know it. He would undoubtably hear it, as well. 

Since there was no sound of someone crashing through the foliage after him, Greg decided that he needed to get some sort of bearing of where he was. That meant he needed to get up high. 

Right near where he was stopped to take a quick break was a smaller building, still quite tall in height, and tall enough to see over the tops of the trees that populated the road. Greg ducked towards the building, happy to see that the metal frames that once held a large, glass window was entirely empty, letting him climb up and inside the building. 

Inside was not much better. Dim light filtered through from the broken roof of the building, and the interior was packed with moss and dead leaves. 

Greg made his way across what seemed like it was once the lobby of the building, making for a staircase on the far side of the room. It was crumbling down thing, old and worn, with a rickety metal railing. Greg clung to the railing, avoiding the steps that were broken through, and a few rat skeletons. 

At least if there were rat skeletons, there were rats. Which meant there might be larger animals out there in the wilderness that had overtaken this city, consuming it and returning it to nature. 

There was a sort of poetic justice to that, Greg thought. A poetic justice that the city, built on the raw materials of the earth, was now being reclaimed by that same earth. All the buildings were crumbling down, and trees were tearing up the roads, moss working between the bricks until all that was left was bits of rubble.

This was a skeleton of a city. Rooted out for its flesh and overrun by the earth until it was dissolved back into that same earth. 

Greg climbed higher in the building, his legs still burning from the exertion of the last twenty or so minutes. 

It wasn’t long before he emerged on the roof. Well, on the roof that had half-collapsed back into the top floor. There were gaping holes, through which emerged trees, plants, bushes and even a few flowers. To his right, as he emerged from the stairwell, was a pile of rubble worked through with moss, and Greg made for that. 

Climbing the pile, and standing there, he got a good look at the place he was for the first time. This high up, he could see that he was still on a main road of some sort. A highway, really. 

It was lined with buildings that increased in height until they met the skyscrapers, closer to the direction from which he came. Further down the road were more brownstones covered in trees. In fact, it seemed like this whole area was most residential, similar buildings to the one he was perched on for a while around. The buildings were fairly uniform in height, and packed in together tightly, enough so that Greg could probably clamber between them. In fact, that could quite possibly be a good mode of transport - keeping him off the ground and out of danger of tripping over. 

At the same time, it could also prove fatal. 

A fall from this height, and he probably wouldn’t have to worry about Mycroft catching him, because he would be dead. 

Greg lifted his face to the sky, just for a moment. It was silly, he knew, but he felt like he needed that moment, just to bask in the dim, grey light. The greyness was washing the colour from his tanned skin, and complimenting the steel of his hair. 

Ruffling a hand through it, it stood on end, the sweat from his scalp making it stand up in spikes. Sweat was still trickling down his neck. 

Suddenly, Greg realised he was alone. He was _alone._

No one to talk to. No John, no Sally, not even some stupid Capitol citizen waiting for him. Just him, by himself. 

The enormity of the situation washed over Greg, and he slid down the pile of rubble, into a heap, putting his head in his hands. People were watching him, perhaps. Perhaps the bloodbath of the Arena was still going on. Unlikely, though. 

Greg knew he had been sat out here for at least half an hour, so that meant that they were about an hour into the Games by now. 

By an hour in, the Careers had rooted out the stupid Tributes; the ones who stayed for the bloodbath. Now, the hunt was beginning. 

The first few hours of the hunt were always exciting for Capitol citizens. They got to watch the apex predators of the Arena, the Careers, hunt down the smaller, younger, less well-trained Tributes. Hunt them down, sniff them out and kill them methodically, one by one. 

In most every Game Greg had ever seen, that was how it had worked. The bloodbath was where a great many Tributes were killed, and then the Careers would hunt down everyone else. Hunt down everyone else, and kill them one by one. 

It would often take them around a week and a half to hunt down everyone else. Then, after that, they would turn on one another in a second bloodbath, or a second hunt. And, finally, someone would emerge victorious. 

There had been one year that Greg remembered, when the Careers had all been taken out by a fire, and that had led to the rest of the Games being a competitive hiding competition. No one could brave coming out, until eventually everyone except one died from hunger or thirst. 

That had been a bad year. 

But this year. This year, the Arena almost had its own personality. Greg had no idea how far the Arena stretched, how far they could get. There had been a large source of water somewhere, he was sure of it, and there were these residential areas, stretching out where Greg was. 

Greg pushed the thoughts out of his mind, and turned to his pack. It was time to do something, find out what exactly it was he had. 

He opened the pack, laying the knife down, and first fished out the tarp. 

A large thing, it was electric blue in colour, and quite thick and hardy. It would do well as a floor covering, once he had found some way of hiding the colour. It was so distinctive, it would be like throwing up a flag and yelling out his position for the entire world to hear. 

The bag itself was also a problem. Fluorescent yellow and unnatural, he would seriously have to find some mud or something to coat it with. 

Inside the bag, further down, was an aluminium water bottle. With it came a sort of filter, which would make any water he found safe to drink. Well, safer. Of course, it was empty.

He would have to find some water. And soon. 

Then, below that, there was a large packet of biscuits, dry, crunchy things that wouldn’t do anything for his thirst, but perhaps for his hunger. Suddenly, Greg was extremely thankful he had eaten a large breakfast this morning. 

Additionally, there was a thin sleeping bag, which was a good sign, a piece of rough card paper and a pen, a coil of thin rope, and a flint and steel pair. That was good. It would let him make a fire. 

Although, Greg wasn’t sure he would be able to use the paper and the pen. It didn’t seem very practical. 

He just shrugged, and carefully placed it all back inside the pack, ensuring that there was enough room for the tarp to be thrown in there as well. Then, he pulled it back up onto his back, took the knife in hand, and then took one last look at the view. 

Objectively, the place was beautiful. It was a gorgeous vista in green and grey and other colours of life. There had to be life here aside from the unknown number of desperate Tributes left and the four hunters coming for their blood. 

There was always something out there. 

There had to be. 

***

It was nearing sunset by the time Greg decided to stop. The grey light was dimming towards darker and darker grey by the minute. 

Greg made quickly for one of the buildings, again going in through a door. This building went up a few floors, and then, on the very top floor, the corner had fallen away, and a copse of straggling, but strong trees stood there. It was high up enough so Greg could see out and keep watch, and, as an extra measure, he blocked off the door to the stairs with a piece of wood. It wasn’t going to keep out Mycroft Holmes, but maybe it would make another Tribute think that the door was blocked by rubble or something. 

It was good enough, simply put. 

Greg set himself up for the night. He didn’t light a fire, again, that would be like screaming out his location. Instead, he dunked the tarp in some dusty rubble, and it came out looking darker. Then, he laid it out and dropped some moss he had plucked from the nearby trees, and placed the pieces on top. It covered over the hideous blue colour enough so that Greg was happy. 

He then pulled it over to the cover of the bushes, making almost a warren inside a bush to shove his sleeping bag into the dense, thick foliage on top of the tarp. Placing his bag on top, Greg took the knife, and then made his way a little higher, onto what was left of the roof. 

He had to stay low, clutching the dagger from Irene to his chest, and peering over the edge to look from this vantage point. 

Roughly, he could make out the place he had stopped before, and he was actually higher now. He could see just that little bit further. Facing the way he had come, from the clock tower, he could make out the straight line of the road, covered in trees almost as thick as an actual forest. 

Across from him was a skyscraper, rearing high into the sky. But it was a skeleton of a skyscraper, grey in colour and destroyed down so that it was practically rubble. All that was left of the skyscraper to touch the sky were the four corners. They reached up like great fingers to the heavens, the floors between them entirely missing. The pillars were overgrown with moss, weeds and vines, making them bristle with green and life. 

To his left were more of the smaller, stouter, terraced residences, their shapes darker and darker, with more shadow. They provided a secondary level for the greenery, while more sparse up here, was still notable. Scraggly bushes and lower trees populated these roofs, which continued on for some distance. 

Greg could, however, make out a slightly darker shape, higher up, some kilometres away. He was too far to make out any details, though, just that there was something higher over in that direction. Maybe more skyscrapers, maybe not. 

More likely they were factories or warehouses, of some sort. 

The sun was already beginning to set, and for the first time, the world was lighting up with a little colour. The sun was setting on the horizon in a fury of gold and red and orange, a striking image between the ghostly shapes of the skyscrapers. It was back the direction he had come from, so he knew that he must be some distance east of the clock tower. 

Suddenly, the trumpets and horns of the Capitol anthem rang out booming through the Arena, startling some birds out of their perch on a copse of trees clinging bravely to a skyscraper skeleton. 

The Capitol symbol began to glow in the sky, right where stars were beginning to show, and where the moon should have been. 

The words; The Fallen flashed up below the Capitol symbol, projected there by some unknown flying craft, high up in the sky. 

There would be the most number of Tributes killed tonight. Most by the Careers, as well. Greg knew that at least five had been killed, but which five, he didn’t know. 

He just hoped Suzie hadn’t been one of them. 

This time, just after sunset, when those Tributes who’d died were projected, was a sort of grace period. A period of saying; we know who died, this is who died, and we are going to respect them for just a few moments. No one was killed during this time. 

A mark of respect to a fallen comrade, no matter how short that comradeship may have been. 

A few images appeared. 

The boy from Three. The boy from Seven. The boy from Five. The boy from Six. The boy from Eight. The boy from Eleven, and finally, the boy from Twelve. Then, the girls. The girl from Four. The girl from Nine. The girl from Eleven, and the girl from Twelve. 

No Suzie. 

That meant there was thirteen dead. That left just eleven of them in the Arena. 

Shit. Eleven. 

That wasn’t many. Not at all. More than half had been culled on the first day alone, and even for a Hunger Games, that was a lot. But, Greg guessed, that was only to be expected for a Games with Mycroft Holmes. 

The bloodbath today must have been extraordinarily successful. 

Of course, remembering Mycroft’s shadowy figure darting across the square, could Greg really say he was surprised? The Career must have easily mowed down most of those dead Tributes in the first half an hour alone, and the ones not killed would have been tracked and found, horribly successfully. 

Greg could only wonder where Mycroft was now. What that pack of Careers was doing right now. And he hoped to bloody hell that they were nowhere near Greg. He could only hope that the Careers had decided going after him was best saved for later, when they had more energy, and more time. Better to hunt down the easy ones, now, and worry about the tougher ones, like him, later. 

Taking a deep breath, and letting the relief wash over him, Greg made his way back down. Suzie wasn’t dead. That was a good thing. That was something he had to focus on, something he had to enjoy the feeling of an celebrate. Because he could only guess that soon, it might be her name, projected up on the Arena ceiling. 

Jumping back into the small nest that he had created for himself, Greg just took a moment to breathe it in. 

Yeah, everything was going to shit. Yeah, soon he would be dead, and yeah, John was by himself and had to watch this. 

But, the place they were in was actually quite beautiful, in its own harsh, realistic way. It showed the power of time and nature, that extraordinary ability that nature possessed to eat the city. To make it come alive from the deadness that humanity seemed to invoke in the surroundings.

Leaning back, Greg looked up. 

Night had entirely fallen, now. The moon was a silver disc, floating through the sea of the night sky. Stars were spangled across it, reminding Greg of home. 

He remembered a time when he had once taken a blanket out, and laid under the stars on a clear night with John snuggled up on his arm. He had pointed out all the constellations, Orion, the Pleiades, even the Treasure Chest of colourful stars that John had to peer at, but once he had seen, was amazed by. 

John’s favourite, by far, had actually been Orion, though. He had seen Orion and immediately fallen in love, gazing at it for at least twenty minutes. He had then proceeded to grill Greg on the subject, asking him everything he knew about the constellation. Where it came from, why it was like that, what the story was behind it. 

Greg had felt terrible for telling John he didn’t actually know. 

But, they had done their best. 

Greg wished he could speak to his little soldier, even just for a moment. 

But of course. He could. 

There was no guarantee anyone was listening, but maybe. Just maybe, if the Gamemakers were kind enough, maybe if he said something, that Head Gamemaker, Mike Stamford, had seemed like he was just nice enough to let John hear it. 

So, Greg opened his mouth. 

‘John,’ he said, into the silent darkness. It was quiet, almost a whisper, but he said it anyway. ‘Look, I dunno if you can hear me, but if you can, I want you to know something. I love you. Okay? 

‘I love you, and every night, before I go to sleep, I’m gonna tell you that. I’m gonna tell you to be brave, and to be strong, and that I love you. I want to come back to you, my little soldier, but right now, you need to be brave for me. 

‘I need you to do that for me, because if you are brave, then I can be brave as well. Okay?’ 

Greg knew he wasn’t going to get an answer, but he imagined John had said okay, as well. That John had agreed with him, in that small, almost squeaky voice, to be brave. To be Greg’s little soldier. 


	14. Fire

Greg woke the next morning just as the sun was beginning to rise. A birdcall woke him, and the sound of flapping wings overhead drew Greg out of the bushes and into the murky, grey light to look out over the edge of the building. Above, he could see a hawk swooping about, clearly circling above some poor, hapless animal on the ground. 

There had to be thousands of nests around here for them, thousands of places for them to sleep high up, and away from the ground. That, at least, was a benefit of these man-made structures rotting away back into the ground. 

In the early light, Greg could see that an astonishing sort of mist had rolled over the city, blanketing the overgrown town with fog. He couldn’t see very far at all.

It was remarkable. 

There was no sight of anyone, any movement, for what looked like miles around, the only movement being that of the hawk. 

Then, with a cry, the hawk dived straight back down into the mist, disappearing amongst the white fog and the very tops of the trees still visible to the eye, poking out like islands from an ocean. 

It was refreshing. 

Despite the grey atmosphere and air in the place, there was a definite sense of refreshment. Greg could hold out his face to the slight breeze, let it ruffle his hair, and take in a little of that moist oxygen. 

That, of course, only served to remind him that he needed water. He needed it desperately. His throat was parched from the biscuit he had eaten last night, and his hands and feet felt musty and dehydrated. 

So, Greg pulled his things together, tossing everything back into his pack, ensuring the aluminium bottle was on top, as well as the filter, and leaving a little room for food he might be able to pick up on the way. Pulling himself out of the scraggly bush, he felt a little bad for the fact that behind him, the bush was utterly destroyed, trampled down and crushed from Greg’s body weight. 

Reaching over, Greg tried to fluff it up a little, push the bush back into place. Then, of course, he realised how ridiculous he was being. 

The isolation, he decided, was sending him insane. 

Packing up his things was the easy part. Getting back down the stairs was a little trickier, but he finally made it out into the forested street.

Then, Greg took a brief moment to try and decide which direction he should go. He should definitely try and get as far away from the other Tributes as possible, so that meant he should get away from their last known location, at the Cornucopia. He had come from the west, so he should head towards the east, or the direction that the sun had risen from. 

Easy. 

Following the path of the sun, but sticking to the edge of the road, he remained under the cover of the greenery and tree life, while keeping an eye on the road itself. 

Out in the middle, coverage was a bit sparser, as the trees had a more difficult time rupturing through the asphalt. That left a bit of a more open area in the middle, which should be avoided. Greg realised that by keeping to the left side, he could stick next to the apartment blocks, which had seemed like a safe bet when it came to finding spots to sleep. There was also a bit of a rabbit’s warren of smaller access roads through which Greg could pass. 

The dagger was a bit of weight in his hand, but ti was worth it, not only for the extra protection, but for hacking away at bits of greenery that got in his way. 

His throat burnt, reminding him that he needed to find his way to some water. But, Greg thought, he might be able to take just a few more hours before he was resigned to drinking his own piss. 

***

He had misjudged. He had seriously misjudged his ability to go without water. His throat was aching, hoarse and parched, and his head was fuzzy. He felt light, as if he was walking on air, and his vision swam. 

He needed water. Desperately. Now. 

And there was nothing in sight. 

Some time ago, he had turned down an alleyway that had looked less choked up with weeds, and was instead more open, with vines and moss covering the ground and trees working their way up through the asphalt to poke through just at the thinner edges of the road. Hulking wrecks of cars stood open and empty, wind whistling through them as Greg made his way past. 

He was moving too slowly. He knew he was moving too slowly. But he was exhausted. His vision was swimming, and black spots were appearing around the edges of his sight. 

‘Oh, _fuck,_ ’ Greg swore, as he stumbled into a tree trunk, collapsing against it hard, and laying his head against the rough bark. He was too hot, and too cold. His head was swimming, and he couldn’t quite remember which direction was up. 

He was in no state to find water. He knew he was in no state. 

‘Please,’ Greg whispered. ‘Please, I need some water.’ 

Who knew if goddamn Dimmock was even watching him, but if he was, the heartless bastard needed to send him some water before he died. 

‘Dimmock!’ Greg screamed, his voice tearing at his throat. ‘Dimmock, I need water! Please!’ 

But there was no response. 

Greg had seen the parachutes coming down from the sky during the Games before. He had seen them, and he had seen them deliver supplies to Tributes that they desperately needed. And he desperately needed right now. He did. 

So, the options were either that he had no sponsors, or that he had a fucking idiot of a coach who wasn’t going to send him anything, even if he begged. Because he was begging, right now. 

He was running a fever, but wasn’t sweating. The moisture was far too valuable to be wasted. That had to be a bad sign, right? 

But why would Dimmock not send him any water? 

Somewhere in Greg’s dehydrated mind, he realised. There was no way that Dimmock wouldn’t send him water if he was about to die from lack of it. Not if he had any sponsors. 

And Greg was certain that he had sponsors. With ten points, he had to have at least one. He had never seen a Tribute with ten points get less than six sponsors. So there had to be a reason. 

What reason could Dimmock have for not giving him water? 

He had no idea. He had no _fucking_ idea why Dimmock was being a goddamn bastard about this. 

Carefully inhaling and exhaling through his nose, Greg willed himself to think. What possible reason was there? 

_You’re being an idiot._

Mycroft’s voice. 

Great. Now he was imagining things. Brilliant. 

But Mycroft’s voice had somehow motivated him _to_ think. 

If Dimmock wasn’t sending him water, when he so desperately needed it, that meant there was water around here. Greg just needed to figure out where the hell it was. 

It couldn’t be too far, and it couldn’t be to hard to find, either. It had to be somewhere he could find it, even in his dehydrated state. So, taking a steeling breath, Greg looked up from where he had leaned against the tree. Raising his forehead, he looked around. 

Even in his addled state, Greg had enough wits about him to realise that there was _life_ around him. The alley he was on was more clear than the others - there had to be a reason for that. The only reason it would be clear was that there was something coming through here, something cleaning up the residue, tamping it down to stop choking vines and trees from growing and blocking up the way. 

Therefore, something was moving through here. Or _somethings_. 

Then, Greg spotted it. A small rabbit, grey in colour to match the asphalt and the sky, scurried across his line of sight. Even in this confused, delirious state, Greg knew what that meant. 

The rabbit had a sense of purpose about it. It was going somewhere - it had to be. 

So, pushing himself to his feet with a gasp, Greg followed it. It was hopping along rapidly, and Greg quickly lost sight of it, but he could follow its tracks. He could see where it was going, because there were other animal tracks. Not just rabbits, either, but deer. Elk, and even maybe goats. Also, some sort of small bird prints were embedded deeply into the moss. 

It wasn’t an easy feat, but Greg pushed through, following in the tracks of the rabbit and other animals, until he reached a point where the alley intersected with another. And at that intersection, the asphalt had collapsed, sagging under the weight of a pool of water. 

‘Oh,’ Greg whispered, ‘Oh thank you. Thank whoever’s listening.’ 

Sprinting the last few steps to the pool, Greg threw himself in, barely concerning himself with how deep it was. For its small size, the pond was actually quite large, certainly deep enough to reach up to his waist. Moss grew around the banks where the collapsed asphalt met solid asphalt, and herbs were growing around the edges. 

Tossing his pack out of the way, Greg splashed a little deeper into the pond, and washed his face, before reaching over for his pack once more. His hands were shaking badly with dehydration, and he was exhausted, worn through to the bone, but it was easy enough to fish out the aluminium bottle and the filter which he had stashed at the bottom.

Quickly, Greg screwed on the filter to the bottle, then pushed it under the surface, letting it fill to the brim with water. The filter made a soft hissing sound under the water, and bubbles popped and burst on the surface. 

Enough. 

At this point, Greg was basically desperate enough to drink the water straight from the puddle. But he wasn’t going to. 

Pulling the bottle out of the water, Greg quickly unscrewed the filter, and then took the water in. 

Clear, pure, perfect, and just a little sweet, it felt like the finest delicacy to Greg’s parched throat. Finally, his tongue didn’t feel like a piece of wood in his mouth, he could finally breathe and speak without it feeling like it was ripping out the skin on the back of his neck. 

Soon enough, the water was gone, and desperately, Greg screwed the filter back on, and dipped it again, before taking up even more. He could finally sweat, and the heat of the day was getting to him. 

While the greyness overhead made it seem cold, in reality quite often it was warm, and then only dropped to a frigid temperature late at night. 

But he could also finally think clearly. Without exhaustion and thirst choking up his mind, he could think through his situation, where he was and what the other Tributes could possibly be doing. Also, what he needed to be doing. 

Clearly, Dimmock wasn’t going to be spoon-feeding him. Dimmock was only going to give him what he absolutely needed, saving up sponsors like a dragon sitting on top of its loot. That was fine. Greg didn’t need it as much anyway.

Firstly, Greg realised he needed to get up off the ground. He had to go to a higher spot, and ascertain the direction he was going. He had to make some sort of plan in his head, because otherwise he was going to get horribly lost. But also with going up on the roof, there was the additional risk of exposure. The greenery was worse that high up, with less coverage. If one of the Tributes looked up, and saw him, then it was definitely game over. He would be found in an instant. Particularly if it was a Career. Or, god forbid, Mycroft Holmes. 

If Mycroft saw him, Greg had no idea what he was going to do. He had no clue whatsoever.

Run, he supposed? But Mycroft was faster than he was. Mycroft was faster than any human being Greg had ever seen. Fight? No. Mycroft had a rapier that moved faster than the Career himself did. 

Collapsing back into the water, Greg sighed, letting the water surround and immerse him, hold him up like a mattress would. He knew it was probably a bad idea to immerse himself this way, but couldn’t find it in himself to care. With enough movement, he would dry anyway.

At the moment, the plan seemed to be; get to higher ground, and figure out which way you want to go. Then, go that way, and see what you find. 

But the other Tributes were an unknown factor. Who was still alive? 

He knew all the Careers were still alive. So, Mycroft, Irene, Moriarty, and Janine. Then, there was himself and Suzie. 

Suzie. 

He should try and find her. The girl might not be doing so well by herself, and Greg felt like it was his duty to protect her. It was stupid, and they were in the bloody Hunger Games, but that girl reminded him far too much of John for his comfort. 

So, the Careers, himself, Suzie. That still left five alive that he had both no idea who they were, and no idea where they were. He also had no idea what they were doing right now, let alone what the Careers were doing. He could only hope to all the gods out there that they weren’t near him. And if they were, that he could get lost in this warren of back alleys and side alleys and minor roads and lose them. 

He didn’t like his chances of that happening. 

For all he bloody well knew, Mycroft Holmes could be fingering his rapier and coming towards him from the dark right now. 

And wasn’t that a horrifying thought. 

Greg finally pushed himself upright, and out of the water. Sloughing water as he went, he caught his filled bottle, and the filter, and carefully placed them back inside his pack. 

On second thought, he plucked some of the herbs from beside the pond - what looked like watercress and a bit of rosemary, in the hopes he would be able to eat them. He thought they looked familiar - and hoped that they weren’t deadly, or something. That would have been bad. 

Tucking them into his pack on top of his water, Greg pulled the pack onto his back, and started for the building closest to him. 

Unfortunately, when he reached it, he realised that this was the side of the building. There weren’t going to be any doors along here. He would have to follow the wall, until he came to a corner of some sort, and could get inside, and up. 

It was no easy feat. There were vines clinging to the side, blocking his path, which he had to hack through with the knife he had gained. It was still quite a hefty thing - but not nearly enough to easily slice through them. Rather than cutting through butter, it was more like chopping through particularly lean, hard beef that had been left to age for a week. 

That had happened to him once. 

Never again. 

Eventually, Greg reached the side of the building. It was easier to think, now, without the dehydration. His vision had completely cleared, and he felt as fresh and as bright as ever. Munching on what he had realised was watercress, he felt almost full, as well. 

Although, he would kill for some meat. 

Greg let out a low chuckle at that. He was most likely going to have to. 

The inside of the building which he found was bare. It seemed like it had been some sort of low-rate office building, as what was clearly some sort of reception desk was tilted over and collapsed on the ground, the wood splintered and shattered apart. 

Next to the reception desk was a lift, but when Greg pried the doors apart, the shaft was empty. 

As a last resort, he supposed he could climb it, but it wasn’t quite that desperate yet. 

Looking around, Greg spotted over in an alcove a small sign that read ‘fire escape’. Greg picked his way over to that spot, pulling open the door. It cracked open with a loud squeak that sounded almost like a scream, but it opened. 

Inside was a small, metal staircase, but it was a staircase. Grinning, Greg pushed the door aside, and propped it open, before making his way inside to the stairs. 

Careful on his way up to avoid the stairs that had been rusted away, he eventually made his way to the roof. 

This roof was more intact that others he had seen, made of a hard concrete material, but coated with dust, dirt, rubble and scrubby, scraggly bushes. It was high up enough that Greg realised he was closer to the dark shapes to what he figured was the south before. The dark shapes he could now make out were large, and vaguely in the shape of buildings. They might be warehouses, Greg realised. 

If he made for that direction, there might be fewer chances he would be found. It would be far from the clock tower, he would have coverage at night, and there may even be water sources there. 

Suddenly, a cannon fired. 

It was enough to leave Greg scrambling, ducking down to the floor behind a scraggly bush. The sound echoed over the Arena, reverberating in Greg’s ears. 

Someone had just died. 

Greg had no doubt in his mind who it was that had just killed someone. This early in the Games, nearly no-one died from hunger or from thirst. If they didn’t have a food or water source, then interested sponsors would give it to them. Therefore, someone must have been found by the Careers, and killed. By one Career in particular, Greg was willing to bet. 

But it also meant a good thing. Unless the Tribute was near him, and Greg could not think of a single Tribute who had mimicked him in the direction he had been going, then the Careers were somewhere else. Hunting someone else. 

Greg let out a low breath of relief through his nose, and stood, brushing himself off. He could make his way back down with a little more relief. 

Back on the ground, Greg began to walk through the urban forest, slicing his way through vines and underneath or over collapsed piles of rubble or steel pipes that hadn’t rusted away quite yet. He knew he was headed in the right direction, directly south, away from the original road he had been going on, and towards those warehouses that he had seen in the distance. 

***

By the time night fell, there had been no other cannons. 

That was alright. It didn’t really matter that much if there were fewer deaths in the days after the bloodbath - the Capitol people were still feasting with joy over the bloodbath that had happened. 

It wasn’t until the first day without a death that the Gamemakers got angry, and would push the Tributes towards each other in favour of better ratings and more entertaining battles for survival between Tributes. Greg remembered that fact. 

He also remembered a horrible Games a few years back, when the Gamemakers had, after four days and no deaths, released what had turned out to be these monstrous creatures of rendered apart flesh and bone into the Arena. They had proceeded to eat most of the Tributes, and the only one left alive was a tiny boy from District Five who was only fifteen years old, and his body had been so gnawed on that Greg couldn’t remember whether or not the boy had actually survived to make it back to his District as a Victor. 

Finding a nice roof had been an easier task than Greg was expecting. It was an easy enough task getting up there, and once he was up there, therewas a bit of a lip to the side of the roof which Greg placed his tarp in, and then put his sleeping bag over the top. It was under a tree that had somehow sprouted out the side of the building, an enormous willow with low hanging fronds that brushed the ground and provided a perfect spot for him to hide under. 

Fishing the biscuits and his bottle of water out of his bag, Greg moved over more into the middle of the roof, looking up at the stars, and watching as the Capitol symbol was projected high onto the Arena. 

The only face that flashed up was that of the girl from District Five. Alinta. He _remembered_ her. She had been the shy one. The one who hadn’t done much talking.

Was he sad? 

Yes. 

He had known her. He had talked to her one lunch. And now she was just gone. Dead. 

That left ten of them alive. 

Checking them off on his fingers; Himself, Mycroft, Irene, Janine, Moriarty and Suzie. That left four still unaccounted for. 

But he did take a moment, just a moment, to mourn the young life lost. That girl who had died, she would probably get no gravestone. Her cremated remains and her token that she had brought into the Arena would be given back to her family. 

Her family would mourn her. 

But they wouldn’t have had to if it wasn’t for these stupid Games. She wouldn’t have been hunted down, and brutally killed, if it hadn’t been for the fucking Capitol taking everything from them. 

This rage was familiar to Greg, by now. It was the same sort of overwhelming rage that he had felt back in the Capitol. The rage that Sally felt, as well. 

He let out a soft sigh, and a snort through his nose. 

‘I understand now, Sally. I do,’ he said, softly, into the darkness. His voice was odd, and hoarse with no use. ‘I don’t want to be here. I want to come _home_ , Sal. I want to come home to you guys, and to _John_. I’m _angry_. I’m _sad_. Sal, I _understand_ now, I do. 

‘I get why you want to rage against the machine. And why my passivity about the whole thing must’ve rubbed you up the wrong way. Cause them Tributes, they didn’t have to die. But now they are. Dead, that is.’ 

Looking down, Greg ruffled a hand through his silvery hair. 

What was he doing? Nobody was listening. 

He was just going insane because there was no one listening. No one he could talk to. He was completely on his own for what felt like the first time in his life. There had always been a few people around. His Dad, then the other homeless kids, and then Sally and Molly and their kids. And then, of course, John had come along. 

Even with the homeless kids, which was the only situation comparable to this Greg had found himself in, there was still that sense of camaraderie. That sense that they would defend each other, feed each other if need be. 

But there was none of that here. 

Greg shook his head. Too much deep thinking was bound to get him into trouble. 

He tucked himself back into his sleeping bag, gripping the pendant tight in his left hand, on his chest. Curling around it, and his fist, he could almost imagine that John was there with him. 

‘I dunno if you’re listening, John. I don’t. But I want you to know that I love you. I need you to be brave for me, and I love you. I’m trying my hardest here. I am. I’m trying to be brave, and I’m trying to survive. 

‘Today was easy. I know. It was easy for me to just amble along, and barely have to worry for my life. 

‘I’m scared. I’m so scared that Mycroft’s gonna find me and kill me. Leap outta those shadows like some sort of demon. It’s stupid, I know. But I’m scared. John, this would be the sort of night that I would hold you tight. You know that? This would be a night where I would get nightmares, too. And you and I, we both gotta be brave. I need to be brave. 

‘Gotta survive, for you, my little soldier.’ 

***

The next morning, Greg awoke to a lighter sky. Gone was that sickly grey colour, and instead was a nicer, pale blue sort of colour. It was almost as if the Arena was hearing his prayers, and trying to answer them in slightly underwhelming fashion. 

Back to the grind - picking up his things, and moving down the stairs, and out onto the road. Following the path he had picked out for himself the previous day, it was slow moving, having to weave through trees and moss and vines that were more closely packed together, now. 

Thankful for the large size of the water bottle he had been given, he was fed, not particularly satisfactorily, and watered, and could keep moving through at a quick enough pace. 

Eventually, he made it out onto a more major road. This one was as wide as the one he had travelled down the first day, and more cleared, as well. 

Heading for one of the buildings, Greg quickly found a way up, a little more unorthodox this time, as he had to clamber up the stairwell due to a few missing steps. He could finally get a good look out over the road, at the warehouses that stood on the far side. 

As with the rest of the city, they were overgrown, empty husks, looming high in dark, rusted colours. Vines and moss crept up their sides, and through their windows. They stuck up from the ground like some sorts of great animal, crouched there as if in waiting. 

Through the middle of the road he was looking over, Greg could see a train track running directly across the road. It was a bit of a valley in the trees, less densely packed due to the metal on the tracks. It would provide a definite disadvantage, as well, the longer he stayed down there. Lower ground meant that a Tribute could, theoretically, find him down there, leap on him and have the higher ground to strike him down. 

Not a very admirable, brave way to go. 

At all. 

He also had no idea how far away the other Tributes were. Again, for all he knew, they could all be in one big pack, hunting him down right this very instant. 

And wasn’t that a damn terrifying thought. 

He had to make his way down through the forested road, and across that set of tracks. Then, on the other side, there was another overgrown road and after that, the warehouses. 

Easy enough. 

Greg ducked down the stairs, and was about to cross to the warehouses. 

The smell of smoke was the first thing that tipped him off. It made him look up from where he had been focusing on picking over he moss and past the weeds and vines, so as not to trip. When he looked up, the startling sight of bright orange flames licking up a tree not fifteen metres from where he was standing had Greg turning on his heel. 

‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed, his blood immediately pumping faster through his veins, and adrenaline rushing through him. 

Without a care for what could be waiting for him, Greg sprinted down the train tracks, away from the fire. Quick glances behind him revealed that the fire wasn’t getting much closer, but it was a giant, rushing wall of flame, reaching higher and higher into the sky. He could feel the heat of it on his back as he sprinted, his calves burning from the exertion as he leapt over fallen logs and under vines. 

He took a brief glance back at the fire, which was his mistake. 

When he looked back, he saw that a giant fireball had hissed out of nowhere, and was heading right for him. 

‘SHIT!’

Greg threw himself to the side, thunking uncomfortably into the concrete edge of the tracks, and bruising his ribs. The fireball hissed through where his head at been not a moment ago. 

This had to be the Gamemakers. He was too far away from the nearest other Tribute. He was therefore being driven towards the Tributes. Towards the people who wanted to kill him. Great. Just fucking brilliant. 

But there was no time to be angry. 

Getting to his feet as quickly as he could possibly muster, Greg put his all into running. The dagger in his hand swung as he pumped his arms and his legs. Everything was burning, the pit of his stomach almost hot enough to convince him that he’d already been consumed by the flames. 

The hissing of the fire was enough to tell him that he had almost certainly not been, and that if he wanted to get anywhere, he needed to run _faster._

He also needed to get to higher ground. 

Checking over his shoulder, Greg realised he had a few moments’ breathing room. With a sudden movement that more belonged on a rabbit, Greg leapt up and over, out of the dip for the tracks, and onto the higher ground. 

The more densely packed forest barely slowed him down, as he sprinted as quickly as he possibly could away from the flames. 

The buildings!

If he could just reach the buildings, he could climb up and maybe he’d be a bit safer. Surely everything that was flammable had been burnt up by now? 

Just as he turned to head for the buildings, another fireball came out of nowhere, barrelling towards his head. 

‘Fuck!’ Greg swore, again, ducking to let the fireball sail over his head. He didn’t go down far enough, and the heat grazed along his back, forcing a scream out of his throat, and making him collapse behind a pile of rubble. 

On his front, pinned down by the weight of the burn on his back, Greg let a few tears squeeze out of his eyes, and down over his sweat-salty face. 

That was, of course, the moment that the Gamemakers’ decided it would be a good plan to loose yet another fireball at his face. The fire was consuming everything in its path, the trees falling and the vines burning up. Greg stuck his head up, pushing himself to his feet to get out of the way of the fireball, and then began to run again 

It was complete and utter hell, that was for sure. Actual, real life hell. His back ached from the burn, sweat poured down his forehead and into his eyes, and his limbs were too weak from the lack of food to be strong enough to hold him up. Tears were pouring down his face from the pain, and he just knew he was bleeding. 

There was no time. 

Behind him, the forest creeping through the city was being consumed by flames. Animals were fleeing in droves, caring very little for the human running among them. That was always a good sign - there were actually animals here. 

Bow legged deer, rabbits, rats, even some goats and large wild cats and dogs were fleeing away from the oncoming firestorm, just as Greg himself was doing. His hair was singed, he knew; bits of it were falling into his eyes. 

The trees parted, and, like some sort of illusion, Greg saw his saviour. 

A large body of water, on top of collapsed asphalt, like a larger version of the pond he had stopped by yesterday. His eyes wide, Greg sprinted for the pond. 

‘Oh… thank you…’ he panted out, his pace picking up as the pond appeared. The sound of flames behind him was lessening. It seemed he had outrun the fire, or else he was now closer to the other Tributes. Close enough to be killed by one of them. 

Throwing himself bodily into the pool, Greg yelped at the sting on his back. He swore, lowly, under his breath, in an effort to keep quiet. Who knew how close the other Tributes were. 

As the adrenaline from the run faded from his system, Greg slowly came to feel the full pain of the large burn on his back. It was scorched, and felt like the flesh had been ripped from his body with a pick-axe. It burned, ached, and felt feverish when he touched it.

Sopping wet, Greg dragged himself from the water, towards the cover of a nearby tree. Ducking behind it, Greg collapsed, peeling the bag from his back, and then the jacket and shirt. The jacket had a few singed holes in it, but the shirt underneath was shiny with his blood, and he had to peel it from his body. 

His burnt skin actually came away with it, and he had to stifle a scream in one fist as he peeled the flesh from his body. 

The burn mark was horrific. Greg craned his neck around in an attempt to get a better look at it, but it was no use. He could only catch a glimpse of the edge, and what he saw wasn’t good. The flesh was red, swollen, sore, and the new skin was completely raw. It felt like a lead weight dropped on his back. 

‘Please… goddamnit Dimmock…’ Greg grunted out, just as a beeping sounded overhead. 

Looking up, and frowning, Greg saw that a parachute was headed right for him, a silver canister hanging underneath. It sailed down through the sparse foliage, to land right next to his hip. 

Greg closed his eyes in relief, then scrambled to grab ahold of the canister, opening it up to reveal a small tub of… something. Completely unmarked, the tub was also grey in colour, and made of metal. 

Quickly, Greg unscrewed the top to reveal an ointment. A pale, sickly yellow in colour, it smelt faintly of herbs. Clearly, it wasn’t a high-tech bit of Capitol magic medicine, but it would have to do. Greg was pretty sure he’d seen it before - cheap and easy to come by, even in the District. 

Were they really that dire for sponsors? 

He was certain they weren’t. 

Dabbing a bit onto his fingers, Greg craned his neck and his arm around to apply the ointment to his back. 

Almost instant relief. The ointment felt soothing, cooling and calming on his back, cold in just the right way to bring relief to his aching flesh. Taking a deep sigh of relief in through his nose, and out through his mouth, Greg just took a moment to revel in the sensation of sweet relief. 

His muscles were burning, his head hurt and his limbs were weak from over-exertion, and hunger. The adrenaline had well and truly faded from his limbs, leaving him a shaking, coldly sweaty mess. 

But there was also that sense of victory. He’d just survived his first major survival test. And he’d won. Against the Gamemakers, even. The Gamemakers weren’t, if they were desperate, afraid of killing off Tributes themselves, particularly if the Tributes weren’t dying quickly enough. 

It seemed he was being driven towards the others though. Or away. Depending on how you look at it. 

Letting out a low, almost hysterical laugh, Greg leaned his head forwards against his tree, closing his eyes for just a moment. He had survived. He had lived to tell the tale. 

It was only going to get harder from here, but Greg pointedly didn’t think about that. Scrubbing a hand over his chestnut face, and shivering torso, Greg pointedly didn’t think about the fact that the other Tributes would be near him, now. 

‘See that, John?’ he asked, into the quiet, once his panting and heartbeat had calmed right the fuck down. ‘I survived.’ 

He laughed, weakly. ‘Guess I just gotta keep doing that, hey?’ 


	15. Sight

Molly, taking a sip of the drink she’d gotten herself, and setting down a bit of bread and some ham next to John’s elbow on the sofa, sat down herself. The small blond was watching the television avidly. His navy-blue eyes were focused on the screen, and he was barely moving. If Molly didn’t see the rise and fall of those small shoulders in breath, then she might have mistaken the young boy for a statue. 

‘John?’ she asked, quietly. ‘Will you eat something?’ 

‘Yeah, alright, Molly,’ he said, softly, reaching for the bread and ham. 

On the screen, Greg was wandering through the Arena. 

This year’s Arena was far different to the other Arenas in previous years that Molly had seen. It was a city, overgrown with trees and choked up with weeds and vines and moss. An incredible, beautiful sight, not just for what it was, but what it represented, as well. 

Wide, sweeping shots of the Arena on the first day had showcased the size and scope of the Arena. Hulking, skeletal skyscrapers with nothing but a bit of scaffolding, and ruined suburbia, the collapsed forms of houses overgrown by forest. Animal life skirted here and there, amongst the messes of rubble, and in the rabbit warren of back alleys, minor streets and walkways of the overgrown terraced homes to the south east of the Arena, where Greg was now. 

Greg’s face was worn, and the shadows under those familiar chocolate-brown eyes were horrific. 

He had managed to get out of the bloodbath fairly intact, but the cameras had barely noticed him. John had been gasping for any sight of Greg during those first few minutes, but had barely gotten it. Instead, the cameras, Caesar and Claudius Templesmith had instead focused on one Tribute in particular. 

A Career by the name of Mycroft Holmes had absorbed most of the screen time, taking it up with his actions and movements and the way he darted about with a rapier in hand. The Tribute had managed to kill at least nine others just by himself, his blade a bloodied streak of silver, whistling through the air. 

Sally hadn’t let John watch many of the kills, too afraid that it would be Greg under the man’s rapier next. Those slate eyes had become familiar to everyone in the District by now. 

Mycroft Holmes. The first Tribute to ever get twelve points from the Gamemakers, the Tribute with easily the highest number of kills so far in the Games. He was already the favourite to win, most people didn’t bet against him. The only thing people bet on now was how quickly the Games would be ended. 

Molly had even, by now, heard the bet that the Games would be over in less than a week, simply thanks to this prodigal Career. 

But right now, Greg was on the screen. He’d barely been a favourite of the cameras, simply due to the fact that he was quite a distance away from the other Tributes. Right at this moment, though, Greg looked parched. He was stumbling, a little, and his entire body was shaking. That wasn’t a good sign. 

‘Molly?’ asked John’s tentative voice. ‘Will they let Greg just die from thirst?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ replied Molly, honestly. Sally shot her a dirty look. 

‘I’m sure they won’t.’ 

On screen, Greg was begging. His voice was completely hoarse, and dry and he seemed so fucking desperate. He had leaned himself against a tree, his eyes closed, and his body shaking from exhaustion and dehydration. 

Molly didn’t think she’d ever been as dehydrated as Greg was right now. 

Greg was now pleading for Dimmock to send him some water. 

It was a horrible juxtaposition. In the middle of an overgrown, green city, with a sky so grey that it looked like rain might fall at any moment, Greg was dying of thirst. That was what he was doing. He was going to die from it because no one was going to do anything to help him. 

Enough. 

Molly stood, and began to pace behind the sofa, her hands behind her back. Sally shot her a dirty look, then leaned over to touch John on the arm. 

‘Do you want to go outside?’ she asked him. 

John shook his head. ‘I want to watch Greg. Who knows when he’ll be on next.’ 

‘I think…’ 

Suddenly, there was movement on screen. Greg had been collapsed agains a tree, but had opened his eyes, and was looking at something off the edge of the camera’s sights. 

The camera swivelled to include a view of a rabbit, darting across the screen and through the foliage below the brownstone buildings and terraced houses. Strangely, Greg followed it. 

Stumbling slightly, and holding out a hand for balance, Greg held his dagger and was following the rabbit down some unknown path. Stopping her pacing, Molly focused on the screen. 

What the hell was he doing?

John was sitting more upright, clearly recognising the look on Greg’s face. 

‘What is it?’ Molly asked John. 

‘I know that look,’ said John, quietly. ‘That’s the look Greg gets when he realises something.’ 

‘Oh?’ asked Sally, raising a brow, just as the camera turned to behind Greg, so the audience could see what Greg was seeing. Greg pushed through a bush, and revealed in rather dramatic fashion, a pond of water. 

‘YES!’ screamed John, leaping up in victory, his hands in the air. 

Sally let out a low sigh of relief, and Molly went over and gave John a hug. 

_‘Would you look at that, Caesar.’_ said Claudius, as a voice-over. _‘The Silver Knight’s managed to find himself some water. He looked a little desperate for it there.’_

_‘Mm, he did rather, didn’t he.’_

_‘Yes. It’s such a pity that the Silver Knight isn’t closer to the other Tributes. He’s a survivor, clearly, but it’s such a pity we don’t get to see him in action.’_

_‘Ah yes. We’ll remind you, folks, this particular Tribute managed to get a full ten points from the Gamemakers in his assessment. Incredible, really. He must have done something truly extraordinary, and we haven’t yet got to see that in action.’_

_‘Well, I suppose he will come across someone at some point.’_ On the screen, Greg was submerged in the water. 

Molly smiled, gently, as the sight of it brought back memories of the time that they had all gone to the ocean together. Herself and Sam, as well as Sally, Lottie and Alex, had all gotten together with John and Greg and headed down to the beach on a rare day off. 

They had had such fun, and John had smiled for what had been the first time since his parents had died. Greg’s silver hair had shone in the sunlight, with the water, just like it was doing right now. 

Molly missed him. Desperately. Missed the kind, older boy with a fierceness usually reserved for her family. 

But that was what Greg was, really. A part of her extended family, not the one she was born into, but the one she chose and made for herself. And, in the end, wasn’t that what counted the most? 

Taking a seat on the couch, Molly put an arm around John, and gathered the smaller boy against her side. 

‘Alright?’ she asked him. John nodded, emphatically. 

‘Greg’s not thirsty anymore,’ he said, by way of explanation. Over the top of his head, Molly smiled at Sally, who creased her own eyes in response. 

The screen returned to Caesar and Claudius, sitting at a desk. _‘So, folks, let’s now turn back to the rising star of these Games, the Great Tactician himself, Mycroft Holmes. Currently, they are a world away from the Silver Knight, over on the west side of the Arena.’_

_‘Yes,’_ agreed Claudius, _‘The alliance amongst the Tributes from Districts One and Two is holding firm, and also appears to include another boy, the male Tribute from District Four.’_

_‘Sebastian Moran, if I remember rightly.’_

_‘You would be correct, Caesar. This Tribute,’_ and an image of a large, blonde boy with piggy eyes and large muscles, as well as a not-inconsiderable amount of facial hair came up on-screen, _‘This Tribute achieved a full seven points from the Gamemakers. Not as much as say… the Silver Knight, but enough to be respected. Certainly, he will be a force to be reckoned with.’_

_‘And now here we see the allied Tributes. Currently, they seem to be simply regrouping. Mycroft Holmes appears to also be hunting.’_

The video on screen shifted to the ginger-haired, lanky Tribute. It was hard for the cameras to catch a glimpse of the boy at all. His face was often obscured, and he moved quite quickly, almost as if he knew where the cameras were and was seeking to hide from them, for some reason. 

Next to Molly, John had leaned back in his seat, and wasn’t watching the screen with as much avid focus as he had been when Greg was up there. 

But Molly leaned closer. 

‘He’s interesting, isn’t he?’ Sally said, quietly. Molly nodded, humming in agreement. 

‘I’m not too sure why. It’s just something in the way he moves. It’s kinda… entrancing.’ 

‘Yeah, I’m getting the same sense. I know what you mean,’ said Sally. ‘Although I’m not sure why either.’ 

‘I’m scared for Greg. That Tribute… he isn’t like anyone else in there. He’s… oh… I don’t know.’ 

‘He’s a Career. He’s trained. He knows what he’s doing.’ 

‘Yeah, I suppose that’s it,’ said Molly. ‘He just seems much more well-trained than the other Careers we’ve seen before now.’ 

‘Well there is that other one in there. Irene. She’s good. So is Jim Moriarty.’ 

‘I guess,’ shrugged Molly. 

On-screen, Mycroft was hidden behind the curve of a tree, almost like a shadow. He was ghosting between the buildings, his rapier a flick of silver and red in his right hand. In his left was a dagger that flashed dimly in the light. Every so often, the cameras would catch a glimpse of slate-grey eyes. 

Then, with a vicious swing, the Career threw the knife, embedding it in some poor, fleeing rabbit’s eye. 

Claudius and Caesar whistled. _‘Impressive,’_ said Caesar. _‘That shot was right through the eye.’_

_‘Mm,’_ agreed Claudius. _‘Best way to preserve the meat, that. Also, quite showy.’_

Molly shuddered in horror. Was Greg going to get taken out like that? With just a single throw of a dagger through the eye or the chest? 

John had stopped eating, completely silent next to her. He had flinched, when the knife had impacted on the rabbit, and was now ramrod-straight, stiff as a board. 

‘I’ve seen Greg take shots with his knives like that,’ said John, seemingly trying to reassure himself. 

‘I think I have, too,’ said Sally. ‘It mustn’t be that hard if that grey-haired idiot can manage it.’ 

Sally’s joke was almost enough to break the tension. Molly added her own giggle, in an attempt to help. It prompted John to grin, and laugh, then morph his expression to mock-offence at the grave injustice to his guardian. 

‘Greg’s not an idiot!’ he said. 

Sally smiled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he is.’ 

***

It Sally’s turn that night to stay in John and Greg’s house with the young boy. He had, on pain of punishment, gone to school that day, but not without quite a bit of protesting. Sally herself had better things to do than catch just a few glimpses of Greg, but she had heard there hadn’t been any sight of him that day. 

Mostly due to the fact that the Careers had begun their hunt of the other Tributes. And come up successful quite early on, as well. 

There had been quite a tense hunt that morning, apparently. A girl from District Five had been tracked mercilessly through the north-east section of the Arena - a broken down, skeletal remnant of a suburb. Houses were littered about, hollow husks crumbling down and falling apart. 

Mycroft Holmes, the ghost in the dark, the horror hiding under the bed, had hunted the poor girl through the wreckage. 

He had played with her, apparently. Played with her fear, hunting her but always just a little out of sight. In the shadows, as she ran and shook and shivered and tried to catch a glimpse of him. But he was far too quick. 

Herding her towards a dead end, he had stepped out of the shadows and his rapier had flashed out. 

She had been dead before she could even scream. 

Sally hadn’t seen it. She only saw the aftermath, and heard from everyone else down at the Market what had happened. 

She sat down next to John, as both Caesar and Claudius did a sort of recap of the day. 

_‘… evening! And what an exciting day it has been.’_

_‘Yes, it has been, rather, hasn’t it,’_ agreed Claudius. _‘While there has only been one death today, but it_ was _an interesting death, wasn’t it, Caesar?’_

_‘That it was,’_ agreed Caesar, _‘One Tribute hunting another. It isn’t really anything we haven’t seen before, but Mycroft Holmes’ hunt was quite a marvellous, masterful thing to behold.’_

_‘Mm, the poor girl didn’t really have a chance, did she?’_

They began to talk about the technical things, about the little things the supposed Great Tactician had done, cornering her like that, giving her no chance to escape. Then, her practically instant, less-painful death through severing her spinal cord. 

‘Sally?’ said John’s querulous voice. ‘Greg’s too clever to be hunted down like that, right?’

‘Mmm,’ hummed Sally. ‘I…’ 

She wasn’t entirely sure how to reply. Perhaps Greg would find some way out. Perhaps he would survive. But the chances of that happening were so slim - she didn’t even want to really think about it. 

He was a survivor, a warrior, that was sure. But would it be enough to fight off that monster, that _fucking_ predator on the screen?

She didn’t know. 

‘He’s scary,’ John commented, quietly. 

‘Yeah, he is a bit, isn’t he?’ agreed Sally. ‘Bit like that one you told me lived under your bed last year.’ 

The teasing had it’s intended effect. John laughed. 

‘I was just a little kid, then!’ he said. ‘I was only eight! I was just a baby. I’m nine now. I’m much older. There’s no monsters under _my_ bed.’ 

‘I suppose not,’ Sally shrugged, ‘But I don’t know about that chest of clothes of yours. You never know, some of Greg’s stinky underwear might’ve gotten a bit of life of its own. Whaddyou reckon?’ 

‘Hey!’ yelped John. ‘Don’t be mean. Greg washed all his undies.’ 

‘Really?’ drawled Sally, disbelieving, raising a brow. ‘I highly doubt that.’ 

‘Well,’ amended John. ‘Most of them.’ 

‘Ew!’ Sally exclaimed, teasingly. ‘That’s gross.’ 

‘Well,’ said John, ‘When he gets back, I’ll tell him you said that, and he’ll make a point of washing them in _your_ living room!’ 

Sally heart shattered. 

John honestly believed Greg was coming back. He honestly believed that Greg was going to beat the odds. 

John was so mature, usually. So mature, but at the same time, he had such an innocent lack of cynicism. 

‘John… I…’ 

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t burst his bubble - couldn’t tell him that Greg wasn’t coming back. 

It was her own _damn_ fault, anyway. Somehow, something she’d done had convinced Greg he needed to volunteer from Alex. To throw away his life for hers, for Alex’s, for their family’s. 

Tears were prickling behind her eyes. 

She was so damn _angry_ with that silver-haired bastard. It had been a thing coming for some nights, now. Boiling up in the pit of her stomach. 

She was thankful. She was. She was so happy that Alex was still alive, that he was here with them. But the anger came from the abominable guilt she felt over the whole thing. She hadn’t _asked_ Greg to sacrifice himself! She hadn’t. 

_‘…oh, we’re getting now that Greg Lestrade, our favourite Silver Knight has settled in for the night.’_

_‘If our audience remembers, he’s in the southeast of the Arena. Quite far from the other Tributes, but he’s heading down towards the railway in the south of the Arena. He’s now settled on a roof of a building, as we can see here.’_

On the screen, a panning shot over the Arena showed up, zooming in on Greg’s position. John sat more upright, and flung out a hand for Sally. 

‘It’s Greg,’ he said, excitement bleeding into his tone. ‘Look!’ 

‘Yes,’ said Sally, ‘I can see that.’ 

The sun was setting on the horizon, and the deaths for the day were being played. Greg was standing on the roof, a striking image of him against the night sky, his silver hair and chestnut skin a striking combination. His frame was more muscular from the training he had clearly undergone, and even Sally, who loved pussy more that life, was willing to admit that he looked… good. 

He was watching the death that day with an odd expression on his face. His brown eyes were dark, shuttered, and it looked like he was sad. Greg bit his lip, that way he always did when he was trying to contemplate something complicated. Sally smiled softly. 

Greg’s voice, when he spoke, was hoarse, clearly from not being used, but his tone was strong. 

_‘I understand now, Sally. I do. I don’t want to be here. I want to come_ home _, Sal. I want to come home to you guys, and to_ John _. I’m_ angry _. I’m_ sad _. Sal, I_ understand _now, I do.’_

Sally froze, ramrod straight. Her attitude towards the Capitol had always been a point of contention between the two of them. She knew he hated having to listen to her. She knew it was pointless, and he knew it was pointless.

But now here was Greg, and he was agreeing her. Finally, he understood why she chafed, all the time. Why they were different, and why his attitude was just… abhorrent to her. 

They were friends despite their differences, but here was Greg admitting that he could finally fucking understand why she felt the way she did. 

It rang hollow. 

She didn’t care, anymore, about making him understand and see her perspective. She’d give it all up just to have the bloody idiot back. All that crap, it didn’t matter anymore. Not really. 

Sally blinked, looking down at her lap, as John squirmed uncomfortably next to her. 

_‘I get why you want to rage against the machine. And why my passivity about the whole thing must’ve rubbed you up the wrong way. Cause them Tributes, they didn’t have to die. But now they are. Dead, that is.’_

She was angry, too. Idly, she wondered if Greg knew the girl who died. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had made friends with her. Greg seemed to make friends with everyone. He was so easygoing. So friendly, unlike her. She always had spikes, she knew. It made her hard to talk to. To be friends with. Not like Greg at all. 

And look where friendship with her had gotten him. 

‘Shit,’ she swore, her voice shaking. Raising a hand to her face, she broke, sobbing into her hand. 

‘Sally?’ asked John, reaching out a hand to lay it on her shoulder. ‘Are you alright?’ 

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘This is _my_ fault. It’s _my_ fault Greg was obligated to take Alex’s place. If he hadn’t gone… you’d still have him. He’d still be here.’ 

‘It’s not your fault,’ said John, softly. Sally frowned, surprised enough to look up from her hand. 

‘What?’ 

‘I said,’ repeated John, his voice slightly sarcastic, ‘It’s not your fault.’ 

‘Why?’ asked Sally, her hands shaking. ‘It is my fault. It’s my fault Greg was stupidly brave and sacrificed himself for this stupid Games, for Alex.’ 

‘Didn’t you hear what Greg said? When he left? He said to me, and to you, that it wasn’t your fault. Don’t you believe him?’ 

Sally let out a wet laugh. 

‘He just said that.’ 

‘He meant it,’ said John. ‘It’s no-one’s fault but the Capitol’s for putting him there.’ 

Sally looked at John, her eyes wide. ‘What?’ 

‘It’s the Capitol that put Greg there, isn’t it?’ asked John, confusion colouring his tone. Sally bit her lip, looked away, then nodded, quickly. 

‘If it is, then why are you blaming yourself?’ 

Greg’s voice on screen interrupted them. He had gotten into his sleeping bag, and the camera was right next to his head. The screen was practically black, though there was the vague outline of his profile, his nose and his eyes and his hairline, visible against the darkness. 

_‘I dunno if you’re listening, John. I don’t. But I want you to know that I love you. I need you to be brave for me, and I love you. I’m trying my hardest here. I am. I’m trying to be brave, and I’m trying to survive._

_‘Today was easy. I know. It was easy for me to just amble along, and barely have to worry for my life.’_

John was focused entirely on the screen now. His eyes were wide, with unshed tears. 

_‘I’m scared. I’m so scared that Mycroft’s gonna find me and kill me. Leap outta those shadows like some sort of demon. It’s stupid, I know. But I’m scared. John, this would be the sort of night that I would hold you tight. You know that? This would be a night where I would get nightmares, too. And you and I, we both gotta be brave. I need to be brave._

_‘Gotta survive, for you, my little soldier.’_

‘Oh you fucking idiot,’ Sally said, quietly, into her hand. ‘Why… why would you do this to me…’ 

Next to her, John was shaking, his navy blue eyes filling with moisture. 

The screen faded, and Caesar and Claudius re-appeared. 

_‘Quite the speech,’_ said Caesar. The both of them were sniffling. _‘John, if our audience remembers, is Greg Lestrade’s son, the boy at the Reaping in District Ten, and who Greg Lestrade is so dedicated to.’_

_‘Yes, his token apparently comes from his son, actually,’_ sniffled Caesar, _‘The wooden sword pendant we saw.’_

_‘Ah…’_ Sally grabbed ahold of the remote, turning off the tele screen. Next to her, John was shaking with silent sobs. 

And Sally knew what to do. 

Folding the boy into her arms and her lap, she pressed her face into his soft, blond locks, and held him tight. 

‘I know, honey, I know.’ she whispered to him. ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?

‘I know it hurts so much right now. Greg’s being brave, and you need to be to, honey. I know it’s hard, and I know you want him back so bad, because I do too. I’d do anything to have him back. But we can’t have him back right now.’ 

‘I just want him to come _home,’_ John sobbed. ‘Is that too much to ask?’ 

‘No,’ said Sally. ‘It’s not.’ 

***

As night fell, Greg pulled himself up, and headed towards the buildings. As he’d run some distance, the buildings had transitioned from the residential brownstones to hulking, skeletal skyscrapers. Only the bottom most floors were left still standing, aside from just the scaffolding of the building. 

Thus, Greg could only go up five floors before, on the sixth floor, there was no more staircase and the ceiling on that level was completely open. The wall between the various offices had come crumbling down, and the rooms were open to the elements. The windows stood empty, glass completely missing. They had various trees, moss and weeds growing in them, the floor more similar to a forest floor, and liberally littered with evidence of mankind. 

Greg found himself a space under a desk which was creeping with vines, and set himself up for the night. It wasn’t as close to night as it had been when he had stopped the day previous, but he knew it was unlikely he would be able to maintain the stamina to keep moving at the rate he had been. His back was aching something terrible. 

Back at the pond he had jumped into after escaping from the fire, he had refilled his bottle of water. Taking a sip from it now, Greg peeled off his shirt, and re-applied the ointment to his skin. 

It was feeling a little better after a couple of applications, so Greg guessed it might be something just ever so slightly stronger than the stuff he had back in the District, but not by much. 

Sighing, Greg leant forwards so he could lay face down in the sleeping bag, with his burnt back open to the air. Hidden as he was, he was fairly certain no Tribute would stumble across him. 

Just then, the Capitol anthem rang out over the Arena, prompting Greg to sit up again, and look out to where they were going to play the distinct lack of deaths that day. 

As he had expected, the Capitol symbol stayed floating there, and then disappeared a moment later. No deaths. 

Greg was almost thankful. Suzie hadn’t died, and no-one else had, either. But the lack of deaths meant that the Capitol audiences would be getting frustrated, antsy. They all loved watching a good death. It was sick. 

Letting out another sigh, Greg turned, and was about to lay back down to sleep, shirtless, when he spotted a bright flare of light out of the corner of his eye, and a curl of smoke rising up from the road below, between the trees. 

Idiot. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to try and light fire? 

Crawling over to be hidden behind the ledge of the roof, he poked his head up to take a better look at who it was. He could only just make out between the trees that it was a girl. 

Then, he saw it. 

A flash of shadow between the trees, heading straight for the poor girl. Greg ducked under the ledge, and waited, holding his breath. 

A shrill scream rang out over the Arena. 

It was sharply cut off, and Greg flinched. The cannon rang out not a moment later. 

Taking a shallow breath, Greg stayed down, pushing himself against the sharp angle between the ledge and the roof. He had to stay silent. 

Just his luck - bloody idiot had grabbed the attention of one of the Careers. Who knew which one. 

Loud voices began below him, loud enough to penetrate through the foliage and up through, so Greg could hear them loud and clear. 

‘Oooh, don’t kill me, please!’ mocked Moriarty, his voice lilting. Irene laughed. 

‘Pathetic,’ sneered Janine. 

There was a loud thump. 

‘Come on, girl, hurry up,’ said Irene. 

‘I can’t go that fast, please!’ 

Greg inhaled sharply, in surprise. _Suzie._ The Careers had her. 

Shit. This wasn’t good. He had to save her - he had made a promise. Not just to her, but to himself, as well. Saving her - it would be like saving John. 

He had no idea how he was going to do that. 

‘Oh, Iceman, can’t we just kill her?’ begged Moriarty, his tone musical, and lilting. 

‘No,’ said Mycroft’s voice, soft and gravelly. Greg breathed out a sigh, closing his eyes, and letting Mycroft’s dulcet tones wash over him. ‘She is our best chance of finding him.’ 

‘Ah yes,’ said Irene, the smirk obvious in her voice. ‘Gregory Lestrade. Your precious _Silver Knight._ ’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Mycroft, his tone unreadable. ‘Sebastian, be careful with her. She cannot be damaged, or else she will not work as bait.’ 

‘This is stupid,’ said Moriarty. ‘How will he know that we have her?’ 

‘He knows she can’t survive by herself,’ replied Mycroft. ‘He will come and find her, and when he does, we will find him. Don’t question me, _Jim,_ you won’t like the consequences.’ 

‘I have faith,’ said Irene. 

Mycroft didn’t reply, but Greg could imagine the sneer marring those regal features. 

Janine sniggered, and they continued their conversation, moving off back the way they had come. Greg let out a low sigh, once they were out of earshot. He waited a good ten seconds, then poked his head up over the lip of the roof, looking down at where the girl had been killed. Night had fallen, but her fire was still smoking slightly. 

And Mycroft was there. He was just… standing there, looking up at Greg. 

Shit. 

Greg ducked his head back down, inhaling and exhaling sharply against the worn concrete. 

The other Tribute had been standing there, ghostly and shadowy, silhouetted by the smoke and faint glow of the fire behind him. His slate grey eyes had shimmered in the darkness, looking up at Greg. 

Shit, shit, fucking bollocks. 

He had _seen_ Greg. Seen him, and now Suzie was going to die and he was going to die as well. 

Entirely expecting Mycroft to just pop up over the edge of the roof, and slice Greg down his back, Greg squeezed his lips together. 

Maybe he had been mistaken? Maybe Mycroft hadn’t seen him? Unlikely. The other Tribute was clever. A genius, really. He would have spotted any sort of movement and deduced what it was, _who_ it was, within a second. 

So where was he? What was he doing? Why wasn’t he already up here, slicing Greg into ribbons? 

Greg had no idea what possessed him. 

Mycroft had seen him, and hadn’t moved towards him. Hadn’t done anything, really. 

So, if Greg was going to die anyway, then he might as well take another look? 

He poked his head up over the ledge once more, peering down to where Mycroft was standing. 

Getting a better look now, he saw that the other Tribute’s ginger hair was slowly darkening as the sun crept lower and lower below the horizon. His pale skin shone in the moonlight, and his slate eyes were focused directly on Greg’s face. 

Everything froze. 

The other Tribute’s face was completely emotionless, not a single thought betrayed through his body language. If Greg didn’t know better, he’d think Mycroft was a statue. 

The rapier was a lick of silver, hanging loosely by Mycroft’s side. The Tribute himself was lacking a jacket, left only in a tight, black top that showed his lean, muscular frame. Long limbs lacked tension. 

He was just… looking. They were both staring at one another, and Greg couldn’t break their gaze for the life of him. 

What was happening? What was this? 

He knew his own confusion was showing on his face. 

Then, for some reason, Mycroft smiled. 

It was like no smile Greg had ever seen before. It was an almost _kind_ smile, filled with something completely unnameable. That understanding was there, the understanding that Mycroft hadn’t expected him. Hadn’t expected him at all. 

This power, that Greg somehow had over the other Tribute, was astonishing. It had somehow fallen into Greg’s hands. And Greg didn’t, for an reason, want to abuse that. Mycroft… 

Greg didn’t understand. Couldn’t comprehend this complexity. 

Mycroft was supposed to be trying to kill him! Was supposed to be trying to murder him for survival, hunt him down like he had hunted that girl earlier. That flash of shadowy darkness. 

Something was going on. Something outside both their understandings. Perhaps Mycroft understood it more than Greg. 

All that Greg could understand was that he was supposed to fear this boy. He was supposed to be horrified by this Career, but he wasn’t. He didn’t fear Mycroft. Not the way he should anyway. 

He feared the way Mycroft was making him feel. 

It was just all too hard to understand. Too much. 

The Games should be his priority right now. His and Mycroft’s both. But instead, there was this moment. This moment of silent connection between them. 

Greg didn’t know if he was building a castle out of cards, on shifting sands. He didn’t think he was making all this up. 

But… in Mycroft’s eyes was that same confusion. That same understanding. This was… unexpected. Unanticipated. 

There was a moment of silence. Not just between them, but in Greg’s mind. He stopped trying to force comprehension. It just wasn’t going to happen any time soon. 

So now was the time to accept. 

Mycroft blinked. his posture loose. Those slate eyes shifted, and then his body followed suit.

Deliberately, Mycroft turned, his limbs loose and lean, and darted off into the shadows. He didn’t turn towards Greg. He didn’t try to attack Greg. He just flashed off into the darkness. 

Greg watched him go, quiet. Watched the other Tribute flash through the shadows, the lick of silver at his side distinctive. Greg couldn’t quite track him through the foliage on the ground, but he could catch rare glimpses of shadowy movement. 

He stayed there, propped up on the ledge, for what felt like an eon. Just trying to understand what it was that Mycroft and he had just shared. Mycroft had deliberately chosen not to kill him. Not to hunt him through the darkness like he had done to that girl. 

Greg had never seen him in action like that before. At the clock tower, that had been easy for him. That had been Mycroft showing off. But this had been different. This had been Mycroft in the dark, silently sliding towards his prey. And then… then what? 

What had that been?

Greg snorted. That _was_ the question of the hour. What the hell had he been thinking? What the hell had _they_ been thinking? 

***

He spent the whole night startling awake on a hair trigger, always right on the edge of sleep, half-dozing, half-awake. He was certain that at any juncture, Mycroft could leap up over that ledge and drive a rapier between his shoulder blades. 

Mycroft didn’t. 

Even as sunshine pinked the sky to the east, and Greg was up, packing his things, and pulling his shirt on, there was not even a ghost of movement. The tracks across the road from the building he had been resting on top of were silent, as was the rest of the Arena. As far as he could hear, anyway. 

He had to rescue Suzie; was the next thought on his mind. 

Yes, he would be walking right into their trap. Yes, he would be doing exactly what Mycroft had said he would. Was he really that predictable?

But he owed a duty of care. He had to. He didn’t quite know why. Another thing he couldn’t quite understand. 

‘I’m an idiot,’ Greg said to himself, out loud. Because he was. He was an idiot for Mycroft, and for Suzie, and for just… everyone. 

Letting out a sigh through his nose, Greg sat back against the ledge, leaning his head on the edge. 

He had to think. He had to find a way to rescue Suzie. 

Well, firstly, the Careers couldn’t be that far away. They had to be near, as the Gamemakers had driven him in this direction. So, perhaps if he kept his wits about him, he could find them. 

Find the Careers, find Suzie. 


	16. Death

Throwing his pack onto his back, Greg began to move over the roofs. Instead of wandering along the streets, he’d decided it would be better to move over the roofs. Less chance of being found by the pack of Careers wandering around down there, as well. 

Of coarse, there was the added risk of being spotted by the Careers leaping between the roofs. He was counting on that not happening. Probably a bit idiotic, but, as he shrugged, he was going to die at some point. Might as well be while he was trying to save Suzie. 

The morning was clear, and dry. His bottle was still half-full of water, so he didn’t have to worry about that. But he didn’t have a plan to save Suzie. Not really. 

He had just kind of… decided that he was going to save her. And all he had to do that was a small knife. Relatively speaking. And he was also technically walking straight into a trap. 

How was he going to do it? 

He was interrupted in his thought processed by the rumbling of his stomach. He had been subsisting on the dry biscuits in his bag for some time now. They had been sufficient up to this point, but he could feel the lack of hearty food in his bones. 

It wasn’t anything really compared to the way he had starved on the streets after his father had died, but it was something. He had to eat _something_ meaty. 

And he knew there were things to eat around here. Animals to eat. He had seen them, yesterday, when he was fleeing from the fire. He just had to find one of them. 

He certainly wasn’t going to be able to do it from up here. He was going to have to get back down to the ground. 

Greg paused, taking a look around. The roof he was on was actually already quite low down to the ground. There seemed to be two options to get down. A fire escape on the far side of the roof, going down into one of the back alleys, or a stairwell that he could see just to his right. 

Perhaps there was less risk in getting down through the stairwell, but he had no guarantee that the door at the bottom would be able to be opened. He had come across quite a few doors that were simply too choked up to get into. 

Fire escape it was, then. 

Greg went over to it, peering over the edge of the roof down at it. It was rickety, and rusted, that was for sure. But it was a pretty good prospect, all things considered. It dropped down into the foliage close to the ground, in the small alleyway. Choked up with vines and moss and other weeds, it wasn’t going to be easy to get through, but Greg was going to have to try. 

Stepping out onto the fire escape was another matter altogether. It rocked and waved and whined under his feet, as he slowly and gently laid his body weight on top of it, all the while keeping an eye out for any movement whatsoever. 

There was none. 

Clinging to the rail that wound its way down, Greg made his way through the escape. It kept whining under his steps, and Greg was so afraid that at any moment, it would crumble away under his feet. Thank goodness _that_ didn’t happen. 

When he got to the bottom, he encountered another issue altogether. At the bottom, the last few steps were missing, leaving a good three metre drop down. 

Greg sighed. This was going to hurt, and it was going to be loud to boot. Bracing himself, Greg dropped down so he was sitting on the very edge of the last step, and then, as if he was dropping off a jetty, he dropped to the ground. 

It was quite literally like hitting a brick wall. The impact jolted through his bones, and he felt it all the way up to the top of his head. 

Taking a moment just to catch his breath, Greg leaned against a nearby tree and surveyed the situation. He was now on the ground, but there was no chance that if he just found a nice spot and waited for something to amble by that he was going to catch anything at all. 

So, he had to find someplace he knew that animals were going to come past. 

Immediately, the pond from yesterday sprung to mind. He had seen other animals go to the pond he had stopped at on the second day, when he had been so parched he thought he was dying. 

That was going to have to do. 

If he remembered rightly, then he had to be near to the pond. He could get there, and find a nice spot, and then just wait. The knife he had would have to do. 

By now, it was a comfortable weight in his hand. He knew how it felt, and he knew that it was moderately well balanced. 

Slowly, Greg began to work through the foliage, back towards where he remembered that pond being. He knew it couldn’t possibly be that far away. He hadn’t moved around much, earlier. The main road was just a few minutes walk from where he had dropped, and it seemed relatively familiar, so Greg kept walking along that way, hoping that he would stumble upon it at any point. 

Of course, there was always the constant fear that Irene or Moriarty would leap out of the shadows and attack him. Although, for some reason, he wasn’t afraid that it would be Mycroft anymore. Strange, that. 

That glance, yesterday, was what Greg was solidly ignoring. Ignorance is bliss, and all that jazz, he supposed. It was too complicated to comprehend right now. 

The reality of it was that Mycroft was just his type. The other Tribute was magnificent, particularly when the light struck those grey eyes just so. He was regal, and he had that assertiveness about him that truly, unfortunately, struck a chord with Greg. 

But at the same times, this was the fucking Hunger Games. He didn’t have time for that sort of bullshit. Right now, he was a living example of being up shit creek without a goddamn paddle. 

Add to that the fact that Mycroft Holmes had killed many, many Tributes already. He had to have killed at least five, that was for sure. Greg wasn’t entirely sure how many he had killed, but that fact couldn’t possibly be overlooked. Mycroft had killed people. 

Greg wasn’t sure if he could look past that. No matter if Mycroft had, for some reason, decided to spare him yesterday. 

Had smiled at him. 

Not to mention, of course, the fact that Mycroft’s predatory looks and appraising glances still had him hot under the collar. The memory of it sent Greg into a head spin, making him feel dizzy and disoriented. 

He was being such a wimp _._

It was too confusing. That dichotomy of Mycroft being both a killer, and someone who Greg couldn’t deny being attracted to sexually went against everything Greg valued as a human. 

He was moral. He had the morality not to kill people. He didn’t _want_ to kill people, it was as simple as that. He didn’t want to hunt people through the dark the way Mycroft seemed to relish in it. 

Greg stopped, and turned to hit his head against a nearby, broken-down wall. This was all just too hard. 

And what on earth would Sally think? Or Molly? Or even John? 

John. 

John, who would hate to see Greg like this. Hate to see Greg being _played_ like this. Because that was the only explanation for it that Greg could see. Mycroft was playing with him, fiddling with his weaknesses.

He was doing it with Suzie, and he was doing it with this damned attraction, and Greg couldn’t do a damn thing about it. 

He wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

Too hard. Too hard. Too damn hard. 

Never mind 

Easier to think about John. John, who Greg missed so much it was almost a physical pain. John, who he hoped was alright, who he hoped was keeping it together, with help from Sally. 

Soon, he came across the pond that he had found yesterday. 

This morning, it was cool, and slightly murky. The ash from yesterday’s fire had clearly washed its way into the pond, leaving it a slightly grey colour, mixed with the green of algae. 

Taking a moment just to dip his bottle in, with the water filter on top, Greg looked out over the area. Hopefully, something would come up, something he could eat. He was on the other end than he had been the day previous, and on the far side, he could see where the trees were thinning out, and could even see beyond to the burnt-up part of the foliage. 

It was so clear, as he could see, that he could practically make out the original shape of the road, with the buildings on one side, and the dip off to the tracks on the other. The black, skeletal remains of the scraggly trees and bushes that had been there before the fire were all that remained, and the asphalt was striking compared to the greenery that surrounded Greg. 

The fire was so obviously created by the Gamemakers, Greg could tell, just from the way that it stopped so abruptly. It was a line, delineation between where the fire had been, and where it hadn’t been. 

It didn’t happen like that in real life, not really. 

Finished filling his bottle, Greg washed off the filter, and then put it back in his bag, before taking a quick sip of the bottle and returning it, as well, to his bag. 

Then, he looked around. 

Surrounding the pond, more of an enormous puddle, really, were reeds and watercress, as well as a few scrappy bushes. About a metre from the edge of the algae-ridden water was the tree line - not that they could really be called trees. More tall bushes, poking out from cracks in the asphalt. 

But, for his purposes, they would provide enough cover. Just enough for him to be hidden from any Tributes who didn’t take a close look, and from animals. There was no wind in the air, really, so he didn’t have to worry about that. 

All he had to worry about was staying hidden from the animals. That shouldn’t be too hard. 

***

Greg had picked a nice spot under a large bush, crawling inside and hiding, holding his knife at the ready. 

For the first twenty minutes, Greg had been silent, unmoving, ready. Waiting for something to come by. And every second he was sure it would be the next second that something would come. 

And every time, he had been wrong. 

It was taking a damn age for anything to come out. It wasn’t like back in the District at all, where things would just come out quite easily. But that, he supposed, was the benefit of trained and comfortable animals. 

It was unfortunate that it let his mind wander. 

He remembered the first time he had tried to teach John to throw a knife. It was quite the success. John had only used a tiny knife, sharpened to a razor-point. 

The smaller boy had taken it in hand, and holding it just as Greg had taught him, he had thrown it at the target Greg had set up. He had missed the target completely, embedding it in the wood of the fence right next to the painted barrel, but John had been so pleased. 

He had leapt into the air in victory, turning with a smile to Greg. 

Look how close it is, he had exclaimed. He had been so pleased with the shot, that Greg couldn’t help but smile back. He didn’t have the heart in him to tell John he’d missed the target completely, and that it didn’t really matter if he got close if he didn’t hit the target. 

It took a while, but John had eventually gotten the hang of it, and tossed a knife that landed but scant centimetres from the middle of the target. 

John had been pleased beyond a sugar high after that. Those bright eyes had turned on Greg, sparkling. The next thing Greg knew, he had gone straight to the baker and bought a slice of cake for John with money he had technically needed for his own new shoes. 

Ah well. He had survived with his old shoes for another week. 

Greg grinned to himself at the memory. He was getting distracted, but he might as well enjoy his last few days before he died. He would indulge his own mind however he wanted to. 

John had been so proud of himself, and so happy upon receiving the cake that he’d given Greg a hug strong enough to bowl Greg over. He’d then proceeded to give some to Gladstone, before Greg could explain it was bad for the puppy. 

Ah well. It hadn’t done much harm, and the puppy acted as if he was wrong in the head most of the time, so it was barely even noticeable anyway. Greg knew he was smiling with nostalgia, that he should be more aware of his surroundings, but he honestly couldn’t bring himself to care. 

His legs were aching, and the sun was creeping towards its zenith by the time anything whatsoever happened. 

It was only small. A tiny bush turkey that basically rolled its way out of the brush, and towards the pond. It made a low clucking sound as it went, far leaner than the chickens that Greg raised back in the District. 

But it would do. 

Letting out a slow breath, Greg held the knife in one hand, and drew it back to press against his cheek. He had a stable footing, with one knee bent and leaning on the other leg. 

So, in the space between one breath and the next, Greg drew his arm back and let the knife loose from his hand, sent it sailing through the air just like he had been taught. Just like he had the night before he had been Reaped, for Henry Knight. 

It was also just like the knife he had thrown at the Gamemakers, and that was how Greg knew, before the knife even landed in the turkey’s eye that it was true. It had that feeling, that sense. 

Greg stood from the bushes, as the turkey thumped to the ground, and moved the short distance over to where it had landed. He plucked the knife from its eye, before lifting the turkey, and examining it. 

It was a fairly healthy, small specimen, certainly enough to provide him with food. All he had to do was pluck it, and then roast it over the fire. He was fairly certain he remembered how to do it. He’d seen the butcher do it, anyway. 

First, he had to drain the… 

In the silence, it was easy for Greg to hear any sort of movement. So, when he heard a crashing sound, and the sound of voices coming through the trees behind him, he immediately plucked his things from the ground and ghosted through the trees. On a hair trigger, the turkey clutched in one hand, his bag and knife in the other, he sprinted for the nearest building. 

Thank goodness the nearest building was some sort of office, with a run-down, but still somewhat grandiose entry-way, with wide columns standing next to the entrance, crumbling with weeds and moss. 

Greg threw himself behind the pillars, holding his breath and all his body-parts in, not daring to look out. It took a lot of effort for him to restrain his breathing and stay silent, but he managed it. 

He could hear the sound of two people, distinctly, trampling through the foliage, towards the pond he had just left. 

‘…Hurry up, girl, we don’t have all day.’ 

That was Janine’s voice. He was certain of it. 

‘We have to get back to camp before _His Highness_ does.’ 

‘I know, I know,’ said Suzie, and Greg startled, inhaling sharply. He couldn’t possibly be this lucky. 

‘You know what I don’t get?’ snapped Janine, with a thump that Greg presumed was possibly her kicking Suzie, judging from the whimper that Suzie let out. ‘Why we need to come back _here._ Far better water sources. Just to poke around some dead chick’s camp.’ 

Suzie didn’t reply. 

‘This is stupid. You’re stupid. You’re just a stupid little girl.’ Suzie didn’t respond. 

They moved through the underbrush, their footsteps loud and crackling. The arrogance of it got to Greg. Janine could make noise. Arrogantly, she could stomp through the underbrush without a care in the world for the other Tributes, the fact that she could so easily die. 

Greg heard them move past his position, and slowly, he sunk to the floor, shoving his things behind him, into the shadows of a patch of weeds growing in a tangle by the entrance to the building. Then, he turned, to sneak a peek out from behind the pillar. 

Through the trees, he could make out Suzie’s small form, holding what was clearly bottles of water, similar to his own, under the water, filling them. Janine was standing behind her, tapping her foot impatiently, and with one hand on her hip. 

It was almost cliched. Greg couldn’t possibly be _this_ lucky. He couldn’t possibly just have stumbled across them like this, without even having to make an effort. 

‘Hurry up!’ snapped Janine. ‘This is getting ridiculous.’ 

‘I’m trying,’ protested Suzie. 

‘Ugh,’ snorted Janine. ‘I wouldn’t even be here if Mycroft didn’t make me. You know, why didn’t he take you himself? Far better, the lazy fucking arsehole.’ 

‘You’re making so much noise,’ said Suzie, quietly. ‘You’ll attract attention.’ 

‘Please,’ said Janine, sarcastically. ‘As if anyone’s going to try come after me. No one would dare.’ 

‘You never know,’ replied Suzie. ‘Someone could.’ 

‘Unlike you,’ Janine sneered, ‘I’m not a pussy. Done yet?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Suzie. 

‘Good, took you damn long enough. We need to go to that girl’s campfire. See if there’s anything there.’ 

‘Okay,’ said Suzie, quietly, getting to her feet. Greg saw she was straining under the weight of the water she was holding. 

Then, Janine turned. Greg could see that in one hand, she was holding a sword. The very same sword he had eyed up earlier, at the Clock Tower. It was a beautiful weapon, clearly, and it had been used. There was blood staining the blade, and on the handle, drying slowly. 

Greg pulled out his own knife from where he let it rest next to the turkey. The two girls had paused by the puddle, and Janine was holding the sword loosely in her hand. In his own hand, the knife was shaking, as he aimed at Janine from his position. 

He was about to kill her. He was going to _kill_ Janine. 

He had to do it. He rationalised, he had to do it. He had to save Suzie. She wasn’t a good person, either. She didn’t have morals. She was a Career. She had killed more people than he had. 

She deserved it. 

Greg repeated that to himself, over and over again. She deserved to be killed. She had volunteered to come in the full knowledge of what she might end up having to endure. 

This was right. 

It wasn’t, but just this once, Greg could lie to himself. 

He could pretend she was just like that dog at Henry’s, stealing chickens from the hardworking Knights. 

Kneeling, Greg raised the dagger, and before he could overthink it, he released it. And, just as it had with the turkey, it sailed through the air. It went so quickly that it was a blur, but to Greg, the time moved like honey. 

He had released the knife, and he knew it was going to land. The shot had been shaky, though, so he wasn’t sure where. It was going to hit her - she was close enough to him that he was sure of that, but he didn’t know where. 

With a soft, almost wet thunk, it planted itself right in the middle of Janine’s chest, between the curves of her breasts. Greg remained frozen. 

Suzie let out a scream, dropping the bottles of water. She looked like she was about to sprint, as Janine gurgled next to her. 

‘Stop!’ Greg shouted, as loud as he could. ‘Stop, Suzie, it’s me! Stop!’ 

Suzie’s fear was what sent him into motion, throwing himself across the road and towards the edge of the pond where she stood, poised to run. 

‘Greg?’ she asked, as Greg barrelled towards her, coming to a stop just beside them. 

‘Yeah,’ said Greg, ‘Yeah, it’s me. Are you alright?’ 

‘I’m… fine…’ said Suzie, quietly. He could see she was shaking. 

Next to them, on the ground, Janine gurgled. 

‘Oh… oh God…’ whispered Greg, to himself, collapsing to the ground and pressing a hand to Janine’s chest. ‘Shit…’ 

‘She’s going to die,’ Suzie whispered. ‘You… she’s going to die, Greg…’ 

‘I can’t… I don’t have anything…’ 

Janine’s eyes locked onto Greg’s, and her eyes were scared. She was so scared, as she gripped onto Greg’s pants as tightly as she could. 

Her grip was weak, to be sure, and her lovely face was contorted in pain. It was horrific, even as the blood began to drop out of the corner of her mouth. 

Greg was shaking himself, in shock at what he had done. What he had done to another human being? 

How the hell was this justified? How the hell was he better than her?

By killing her, Greg had decided that his life, and Suzie’s life, was worth more than hers. By killing her, Greg had made himself into someone just like her. 

What the hell had he done? 

He had hoped to hold himself to a higher standard. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Greg said, quietly. He knew he was crying. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I… I don’t know what came over me… I just…’

‘Greg,’ said Suzie, laying a hand on his shoulder. 

‘What?’ Greg barked at her. Suzie drew her hand back as if she had been stung. ‘Suzie… I just…’ 

Janine’s gurgling had died to silence, and that was the moment the cannon chose to fire overhead. The sound rang out over the arena, continuing on for several heartbreaking moments. 

His first kill. He had killed someone. He had actually, really killed someone. 

He wasn’t any better than them. He had told himself he had all these morals, was different from them in that he was just… somehow better. He was somehow better than Janine and Moriarty and Irene, and even Mycroft to a certain extent. 

He had looked at them and judged them and… 

Did he regret it? 

Greg looked up at Suzie, who was looking definitely worse for wear. She had giant rings under her eyes, and she looked like she had just seen a ghost. She was clearly hungry, and her body was shaking, and she looked on the verge of tears. Her usually lovely hair was streaked with dirt, and soot, and tangled into an irrevocable mess. But she was alive. 

And her blue eyes reminded him astonishingly of John. 

The resemblance was uncanny. Just to Greg’s eyes, of course. 

To someone else, she was completely different. Shy where John was boisterous, quiet where John was loud, scared where John was brave. But she was young, and innocent. 

She would have died. With Janine, she would have died. 

But was she really any better with him? Neither of them were probably going to survive. What was the whole damn point of this, anyway? It would have been so much easier if the fucking Capitol just got twenty-four of them in a line to be shot. So much easier. 

Less of this psychological torture. Less of this. 

Because that was what it was. 

Greg threw himself to his feet, and stumbled over to a bush, into which he was promptly sick. The look of Janine’s eyes, bloodshot and wide, glassy in death, was sickening. 

He wasn’t going to forget it for as long as he damn lived. 

***

After throwing up, Greg had stumbled back to the body, in a daze. He’d pulled the sword out of Janine’s lifeless fingers, and the dagger out of her chest, wiping her blood off on his shirt. 

‘Come on,’ he told Suzie, gruffly, and she had followed after him. They headed towards where Greg had stowed his stuff. Greg plucked it off the ground, before heading into the building. ‘We have to find a spot to cook this so that the fire doesn’t show the Careers where we are.’ 

Suzie followed his instructions, quietly. She didn’t interrupt him. 

Greg was operating entirely without thinking. With thinking came regret and the storm of everything he was feeling. He would have to process, but that didn’t need to be right this very damn second. He could wait a moment, leave it for later. 

That was what he was best at, wasn’t it? Ignoring things until they went away? 

Greg was disgusted with himself. 

The procured sword was an unfamiliar weight in his hand, but the feel of holding a sword was familiar. It was a far-cry from his own weapon back home. That weapon wasn’t as well-balanced, as well crafted as this. 

But that one was familiar. And didn’t carry with it the guilt of a kill. 

Silently, Greg found a spot that was hidden from all windows. It would get smoky, sure, but the smoke could be left to dissipate slowly, too small to be truly noticeable by anyone who would try to kill them. It seemed like the place had been a bathroom of some sort, before. Damp, and smelling of mildew, it had four walls, a ceiling and a floor, and even a door that could still close. 

Greg set up bits of wood and scraggly bush inside, on the worn tile. He formed it into a pyramid, for lighting, then did so with the flint and steel in his pack. 

He stripped the bird of its feathers, deliberately not thinking about the blood that was the same rich red that Janine’s had been. Then, skewering the turkey simply from memory of having done it a million times before, he set it over the fire. 

Suzie watched, silently, not commenting on anything she saw. 

It took a while, Greg watching the bird and turning it every so often to keep it cooking right. The small toilet space filled with the smoke from the fire, and Greg knew it was getting into his lungs, but couldn’t care less. 

Taking the bird off the fire, Greg set at it with his cleaned knife, cutting off chunks and placing them on his slightly burnt jacket. 

‘Please,’ he said, his voice soft and hoarse from bile, ‘have some, Suzie. You gotta get your strength back.’ 

Suzie didn’t reply, just sitting down next to Greg, and digging in. 

The meat was gamey, but similar to things he’d have back in the District. 

Back in the District. 

Greg was ashamed. So ashamed. He hoped John hadn’t watched what he had just _done,_ because he couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear that innocent boy of his seeing that. 

No. 

Not his. He didn’t deserve it anymore. He didn’t have that right. He didn’t have the right to call John his own. Only the best of humanity got to do that, and he was no longer that. 

‘Greg,’ said Suzie, quietly. Greg didn’t say anything. 

***

As night fell, Greg ambled up to the roof to look out at the Arena, and wait for the deaths for the day. There would be two, obviously. The girl that Mycroft had killed, last night, and Janine. 

Could he do this? Could he watch this? 

He was going to force himself to. He was going to mourn Janine, and mourn that girl, and he was going to do it with pride. Because it was his fault Janine was dead. He had thrown that knife. 

Suzie came up with him, sitting down on the roof next to Greg, silently accepting. 

The Capitol anthem rang out over the Arena, and the symbol flashed up. Suzie was quiet. 

First, the girl from Five’s face flashed up. She was relatively pretty, in a hardy sort of way. Greg couldn’t tell what colour eyes she had from the picture. Shame. 

And, he couldn’t remember. Shame. 

Then, Janine’s face flashed up. 

Without the contortions of death, Janine was beautiful. She had high cheekbones, a skinny, defined nose, beautifully curled hair, and playful eyes. It had been a game to her. She hadn’t really thought she was going to die. She had volunteered under the assumption she would beat the odds and win. Even against Mycroft Holmes. 

And now she was dead. Dead and gone and it was Greg who threw the knife that killed her. His first kill of the Games. His first kill, ever. 

He hated himself for it. 

The music died down, leaving nothing but the quiet sounds of the Arena, and Suzie breathing next to Greg. 

‘Greg,’ said Suzie, after a little while of darkness, and silence. ‘Greg, what’s wrong?’ 

Greg let out a low, sarcastic laugh. ‘That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’ 

‘Not to me,’ replied Suzie, quietly. 

‘I just killed someone, Suzie,’ Greg spat, ‘I just _killed_ someone, do you understand what that means?’ 

‘You killed someone. You killed Janine. I know, I saw it happen.’ 

Greg shook his head. ‘Suzie, I’ve never killed anyone before. I’ve killed animals before, sure. I’ve killed animals for meat, and some just to keep crops or livestock safe. But never another human being. 

‘God, Suzie, Janine had a life! She had a family she wanted to get back to, she had people she loved, people she cared about, and I took that away, just because I _wanted_ to! I judged her as lesser than me, I acted as the jury on her goddamn _life,_ and now what am I supposed to do? Just shrug, and say, okay?’ 

Suzie looked at him, her eyes wide. Greg raised a hand to his mouth, to stifle the sob. 

‘I don’t… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,’ he admitted. ‘About this. And the worst part is I don’t regret it.’ 

‘Why not?’ 

‘Because I promised to try my best and stick by you, keep you safe. Cause I care about you, Suzie.’ 

‘Well, then, isn’t it okay?’ asked Suzie, confused. 

‘It isn’t,’ replied Greg. ‘It’s never okay to kill people. It never should be.’ 

‘Why not?’ asked Suzie. ‘Not when you want to survive. Shouldn’t it be okay if that person is threatening you? Or when you have no other choice? Either it’s you die, or they die. That’s how the Games works.’ 

‘It shouldn’t be,’ said Greg. ‘It should be that we all have a right to life, and that we can all find another way, another way to live that doesn’t involve bloodshed.’ 

There was silence, punctuated by Greg’s sharp breaths, tamping down the lump and prickling in his eyes. 

Suzie was lost for words, Greg could tell. She didn’t know what to say. Neither did Greg. 

‘Go to bed,’ was what he decided on. ‘I have a sleeping bag in my pack, as well as a bit of tarp. Grab that and get some rest.’ He coughed, roughly. ‘I’ll take the first watch.’ 

‘How do I know you won’t kill me in my sleep?’ asked Suzie, only half-joking. Greg let out a low snort. 

‘I promise I won’t.’ 

‘Good enough,’ shrugged Suzie, moving off back down the stairs. 

Greg sat on the roof, silent. The pendant around his neck was a heavy weight, pressing down on his chest almost in accusation.

There was so much. So much guilt, Greg couldn’t even begin to think it through. It weighed down on his shoulders. 

He wanted to scream. 

He wanted to scream and rage and tear this whole damn thing down and it was just… just so damn _unfair!_

He could point fingers at the Capitol, sure. He could point fingers at them and say that it was their fault he was in this situation, that he had to kill people. 

But the Capitol didn’t throw the knife. He did. 

The Capitol hadn’t aimed, and let that knife fly. He had. And he had done it to save Suzie, a girl who was probably going to die anyway. He was almost definitely going to die, anyway, so what the hell had been the goddamn point? 

Pointless action, pointless consequence, endless guilt. 

Way of the world, really. 

Greg looked down at the pendant he held in his fist, now. John’s pendant was so familiar to him, and yet couldn’t be more strange. He could imagine those small hands, carving that tiny sword, just like the one in the book. 

He wondered, idly, what the Capitol citizens were calling him, now. They couldn’t very well still be calling him a fucking _Silver Knight._ Not after killing someone.

That wasn’t moral. That wasn’t brave. That was just him throwing a knife and having it hit a target. A live one, with thoughts and feelings just like his. 

The night air was cold, but Greg bore it. 

‘I don’t know what to do, John,’ Greg said, into the quiet. ‘I don’t. I just… I just killed someone. 

‘I don’t deserve to turn to you. I know I don’t. I don’t deserve to be able to talk to you and expect you to still love me the way I love you. I’m always gonna love you, little soldier, but this… hurts so fucking much. 

‘I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be feeling. This… this has just taken away everything else.’ 

Greg looked away from the pendant, out at the stars above him. They were fake. They had to be. 

‘What kind of monster gets to decide who lives and who dies? No one should have that right, and no one should be forced to make that decision. 

‘I always told you, my little soldier, that you need to make the right choices, to be moral, to look at the consequences of your actions. I guess that makes me a hypocrite, doesn’t it? 

‘You should value human life. What I did today, that isn’t valuing human life. That’s me being a fucking coward about death. 

‘Cause maybe… just maybe… I should have just let her go. Let Janine run off back to Moriarty and back to Mycroft and accepted what was coming for me, and for Suzie, from the very beginning. I should go and wave myself in front of Mycroft’s rapier and make him drive it through me. But I’m not gonna.’ 

Greg took in a deep breath, blinking the tears out of his eyes. 

‘I don’t want to die,’ he said, into the dark, quietly. This was his truth. It had to be. ‘I don’t want to die. I’m scared, John. I don’t want to die. Not even a little bit. 

‘I want to come home. I want to come home more than anything else in the whole fucking world. I just want to be home with you, and Sally, and Molly, and everyone. I want to muck out the barn, and take care of the chickens and help Sal shear the sheep. 

‘I don’t want to do this. I never wanted to do this. I want to be brave but I don’t know how to be, anymore. I’m not sure I deserve to be brave, John.’

There was no answer. 

Greg hadn’t expected one. 

So, on the roof, shivering from the cold, Greg let himself cry. Let the tears cascade down his face, shake his form to pieces, make him curl in on himself. 

Enough, now, and time. 


	17. Consequences

Molly had relieved Sally that day, tearing John away from the tele screen and dragging him to school before taking him back home. Then, she sat down next to him on the lounge, letting him turn the thing on. The Hunger Games were automatically the first thing that came up, in particular Caesar Flickerman’s face. 

_‘… interesting death late yesterday evening, after a young girl from District Three had lit a fire in the southern side of the Arena, and was immediately spotted.’_

_‘Rather unfortunate, that, but it is how the Games go, quite often.’_

_‘Yes, Claudius. Even the slightest act to bring yourself warmth can often be your downfall. Perilous, and unfortunate. However, all our most major players are still in the Game.’_

_‘Of course. And, as we saw yesterday, the young Suzie Gates is still safe and alive with the alliance between Mycroft Holmes, Jim Moriarty, Irene Adler, Janine Hawkins, and Sebastian Moran.’_

_‘And we have my personal favourite, the Silver Knight, Greg Lestrade, still hanging in there.’_

Claudius and Caesar continued to discuss between them the events of the day, reviewing the death of that poor District Five girl, and examining it. The entire thing made Molly sick, but fascinated at the same time. 

These Tributes had been reduced to wild things, to predator and prey. It showed that humans just weren’t above that sort of thing, no matter how much people wished it were otherwise. 

‘Molly?’ asked John, looking up at her from where he was sitting next to her on the sofa. 

‘Yeah?’ replied Molly, raising an eyebrow. 

‘Are you worried Greg won’t get out?’ 

‘Of course I am,’ Molly replied, shrugging.John bit his lip, saying nothing. They continued to watch the transmission in silence. 

After the fire a few days ago, where John had screamed upon seeing Greg only just escaping with his life and receiving a horrible burn for his troubles, the younger boy had turned pensive, afraid. As if he were finally addressing the fact that Greg could very easily die. 

Molly knew, though, that the boy hadn’t come across the idea that Greg was _probably_ going to die. 

Moly had always considered herself a ‘glass half-full’ kind of girl. She had always seen herself as optimistic, as someone who always tried to see the best in not only people, but situations. But this was perhaps even beyond her optimism. 

Objectively, the situation was completely and utterly bleak. 

In a Games with a Tribute with the highest score ever achieved by a Tribute and the fastest kill rate ever achieved by a Tribute, what chance did Greg really have? Honestly? 

Unless Greg somehow pulled a miracle, then he wouldn’t be coming home. John just hadn’t realised that, yet. 

Molly reached out an arm, and squeezed John by her side, before pressing a kiss to the top of those blond locks, just like she had seen Greg do before. John smiled a crinkled-eyed smile up at her, his navy blue eyes sparkling. 

‘If Greg comes home, we should have a really big party,’ John said, conviction in his voice. ‘Maybe I can ask the baker for a bit of cake he has left over, and I’ll even clean out the entire barn so Greg doesn’t have to do it when he gets back. He’ll be so happy then, won’t he?’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Molly, weakly. ‘He will. He’d love that.’ 

‘Do you think… Do you think he’ll be alright when he gets back?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ she replied, honestly. ‘Why?’ 

‘Well,’ said John, ‘I was thinking, last night, about how I would feel if I had to go to the stupid Games.’ 

‘You were?’ asked Molly, turning to look at the blond, raising an eyebrow. ‘You have thoughts?’ 

John let out a laugh, and shoved Molly’s shoulder. 

‘Don’t be mean,’ he said, indignantly. ‘I was just saying that I think if I had gone to the Games, I wouldn’t be very happy to come out. Cause if you come out, it means you won, and everyone else had to die for that to happen.’ 

‘I suppose…’ 

‘So wouldn’t you feel really guilty? Like those other Victors, and like Dimmock, the ones who come here every year. They always look so sad for some reason. What do you think?’ 

Molly wasn’t sure how to reply, so she just stayed quiet. For his age, John was just so perceptive, asking these questions that she just didn’t know how to answer. It wasn’t her fault, she knew, but she felt like she needed to give him an answer. He needed to know. 

His blue eyes were just so innocent, looking up at her like that. His face was so mature, and his every action and thought reminded her of someone triple John’s age. 

‘You’re right,’ she said, after a moment of hesitation. ‘It’s guilt. They feel sad because they are mourning all the people who had to die so they could win.’ 

‘That’s really sad,’ said John. ‘You think Greg might feel like that? When… if he makes it out?’ 

‘He will,’ shrugged Molly. ‘But John… John, you have to know…’ 

‘Know… what?’ 

Molly couldn’t do it. 

‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ 

‘Okay,’ said John, sitting back against the sofa, and leaning against her side. ‘Thanks, by the way.’ 

‘For what?’ 

‘For taking care of me. You and Sally both. Cause it was hard. I know it’s kinda hard, sometimes. And sorry that I didn’t give up the bed for you. I don’t mind if you wanna sleep in it with me, you know. It doesn’t bother me. 

‘Just, I know it’s hard to take care of me. I know it’s a bit of an ask, as Greg would say.’ 

Molly was overcome. 

She grinned at John, and tucked him closer to her side. ‘It’s fine,’ she assured him. ‘I don’t mind. I’ll never mind doing this for you.’ 

‘Oh,’ said John, the wind taken out of his sails, a little. 

‘Thank you for saying thank you. Sam never would.’ 

‘Well,’ snorted John, ‘I’m far nicer than Sam.’ 

‘Hey,’ said Molly, in mock indignation on her brother’s behalf. ‘Sam’s nice.’ 

‘So am I,’ shrugged John, casually. Molly didn’t say anything, just huffed out a short laugh through her nose, and then squeezed John against her side. 

_‘… and… Caesar, I’m getting word we’ve got some movement near where our Silver Knight is.’_

_‘Are we?’_

The image on the screen shifted to that of the now-familiar Arena. The camera panned over a small pool, to where Greg was crouched in the bushes, clearly hunting. 

‘Hey,’ said John, ‘Greg’s hunting, look Molly.’ 

‘I can see that,’ Molly replied. 

On-screen, a turkey had just wandered out near to where Greg was hidden. The camera captured Greg, holding his knife, before carefully letting it fly. A perfect shot, it landed right in the eye of the turkey. It fell, to the mixed cheers of both Caesar and Claudius. 

_‘That was rather impressive, wasn’t it, Claudius?’_

_‘It was, rather. Particularly for someone so young. Sure, both Jim Moriarty and Mycroft Holmes have killed Tributes in far more interesting ways, but it is refreshing to see someone hunting an animal like that.’_

_‘And it will certainly provide the young Silver Knight with enough food for an evening, and probably for tomorrow, as well, if he’s smart about it.’_

_‘That is one good thing about the Tributes from the Districts other than One and Two, Caesar. They do know how to conserve their supplies well.’_

_‘Indeed they do, Claudius, and… oh…’_

On the screen, Greg had taken the turkey and quite efficiently removed the knife from the turkey, and, as if on instinct, wiped it off on his pants. The blade clean, Greg picked up the turkey, and was clearly about to remove the feathers, when something happened. 

Greg clearly had heard something, because his head shot up, and he swung around to look over his shoulder, before snatching up his things and sprinting off into the underbrush. He headed straight for the crumbling wreck of a nearby building, hiding behind a large, white pillar. 

The camera angle changed, so that they could make out Greg’s face, and, past the edge of the pillar, the action occurring around the pond. 

Two girls stepped out, and Molly didn’t even bother to suppress her gasp. One of them was Suzie Gates, the young girl that had gone into the Arena with Greg. She was so small, and looked rather helpless under the hand of Janine, the District Two Career who was accompanying her. 

They were saying something that Molly couldn’t quite make out, but Suzie was clearly in the middle of collecting water in large, aluminium bottles. Janine was distinctly annoyed, her sword swinging by her side and her spine stiff. 

She was the sort of casually beautiful that Molly envied. She had a sort of confidence that inspired sexual attraction of the fiercest kind in men. The kind of attraction that Molly could never hope to replicate. 

At least, she shrugged, she wasn’t really Greg’s type. Didn’t have the right body bits for that. 

_‘Now, this is interesting, isn’t it? What shall our favourite little Silver Knight do now?’_

_‘I quite agree with you, Claudius,’_ said Caesar, _‘He does seem a little indecisive about it. The impression I got from him, and rumours out of the Tribute Tower was that he was quite close with his fellow District mate, that they had quite the bond at training.’_

_‘Truly?’_

_‘Yes, Claudius. Perhaps he will save her. As the Great Tactician also said last night, the reason they’re holding onto her is entirely to bait him out. Although this move does seem somewhat foolish.’_

_‘What could be their motivation?’_ questioned Claudius. _‘It is rather strange. Presumably Mycroft Holmes did tell Janine Hawkins to take Suzie with her, but surely if Mycroft Holmes was truly as good as they say, then he wouldn’t allow Suzie out of his sight for a second, not if it had the chance to lure in… oh.’_

Molly’s eyes widened in horror as she processed what she had just seen. 

Greg had thrown the knife. Greg had actually done it, had actually taken that knife and planted it in Janine’s chest. 

John let out a low cry. 

‘Jesus, Greg,’ Molly swore, as the cameras zoomed in on the knife sprouting from Janine Hawkins’ chest, just as she collapsed to the ground. 

_‘Well, this is quite the turn-up, isn’t it?’_ said Caesar, quietly. Claudius chortled. 

_‘That makes the Silver Knight’s first kill of these Games. Aside from that turkey a few moments ago.’_

_‘Masterful, really,’_ commented Caesar. _‘A masterful kill, quite a lovely thing to behold. And look, there he is, going over to the young Suzie Gates. She’s served as quite the damsel in distress, here.’_

_‘Mmm,’_ hummed Claudius, idly, as if this event wasn’t monumental. 

They were right in it being the first kill that Greg had. The first kill Greg had ever had, period. 

‘Jesus, Greg,’ repeated Molly, hissing it out between her teeth. 

Next to her, John was completely stiff, and completely still. His hand was a vice on Molly’s arm. 

They watched, in shocked silence, as Greg, seemingly regretting his actions, knelt next to Janine, pressing a hand to her wound. The cameras zoomed in on his face, on the complex mix of emotions showing there. Molly knew that look. 

The cannon signalling a death sounded. 

Greg was overwhelmed. 

She had known him long enough to have seen that look before. 

Greg was overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment, and to be honest, Molly couldn’t blame him. It was rather heartbreaking to see, as Greg grappled with all the things he was feeling. Molly felt so, so sorry for him, in that moment. So sorry he had to deal with that. 

She knew him. She knew what Greg was like. He would be consumed with guilt, would be just… consumed by it. His heart would be breaking. 

Hers was breaking just watching him. 

He was a brave, strong, kind man. He was a man, a boy who valued morals and moral behaviour above all else, always seeking to do the right thing. To make the right choice, the right decision. 

And in this, perhaps, he had done something that for him, would be the greatest betrayal of those morals. The greatest betrayal of everything he thought was most important in life. He would also be feeling like a hypocrite. Like he didn’t deserve to preach those morals he had lived by for so long anymore, because he had killed someone. 

‘Oh, Greg,’ whispered Molly, tears prickling behind her eyes as she watched him. 

He had turned almost robotic in his manner, silently taking his knife and the sword out of Janine’s grasp, and then moving away from her body in a perfunctory manner. This was clearly his way of dealing with it. 

This had always been Greg’s way of dealing with sadness, with despair, with guilt, with any sort of emotion he felt he wasn’t entitled to feel. He shoved it into a box, and smiled. He helped John, and Sally, and Molly, and in that way, he had been a hypocrite. 

He had always told her it was okay to feel things. To be sad, to be angry, to be miserable, as long as you fought to overcome it. 

But he never did. He always put on a brave face, made everything better for everyone else and ignored his own problems in life. He was brave. So, so brave, all the time. So calm, and collected, taking the weight of the world on his shoulders and never letting anything or anyone else bother him. Letting his emotions rest like a bag in the water, and not acknowledging them. 

Being brave. 

Molly was grateful. She was. She just knew it wasn’t healthy. 

And this was another thing Greg was going to try shove in the box. Because that girl treading along beside him, following him as he took himself and his kill into the building, was so small. Was so small, and young, and innocent, and certainly in Greg’s mind, needed someone to be brave for her. 

That was okay. That was fine. 

But Molly hated having to see that in Greg. She hated having to watch that. 

She had never been as angry and fierce and emotional as Sally had been. She had never needed Greg quite the way that Sally needed him. But she still needed him far more than he had ever needed her. 

But if he ever made it back, not that he was likely going to, he was going to need her more. Right now, he needed her.

Well, not her specifically. But them. 

He needed the family he had chosen. John, and Sally, and herself, and all of them. Just… all of them. 

All of them to tell him it was okay to be sad and guilty and scared and alone. Because they were there with him. 

And it made her as angry as Sally to know they couldn’t do that for him. Would likely never be able to do that for him. 

Because in a few days’ time - and by now Molly had accepted the inevitable - she was going to have to watch him die. If not at Mycroft’s hands, then at Moriarty’s or Irene’s. 

It was going to be horrible and Molly knew she would never be the same again, but never had she despaired it more than right this very second. For the fact she couldn’t hug him. She couldn’t hold him. 

Greg had held her so many times in the past, crying over her father, her mother, Sam, the whole unfairness of the system and of life in general; taking things from her that should never be taken. She remembered all those times with fondness, but never before had she seen Greg in such need. 

‘John,’ she said, quietly, after a moment, as the commentators continued to talk to one another about the kill. ‘Are you alright?’ 

John didn’t reply. He was shaking, softly, next to Molly, and Molly could only think to put her arm around him, and begin to rock back and forth, just like she did when Sam had a nightmare. All she could do was rock the smaller boy, and wait for Greg’s son to speak. 

‘Molly?’ came John’s querulous voice. ‘What was that? Why did Greg do that?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ she replied, honestly. ‘You’d have to ask him. But… Suzie was in danger. He could see that. And he wanted to keep Suzie safe, because she’s a bit like you, really. She’s young and small and Greg wants to be able to help her. To stand up for her, just like he stands up for you.’ 

‘Oh,’ said John, weakly. ‘But… for him to win… doesn’t she have to die?’ 

‘Exactly,’ whispered Molly. 

There was silence, interrupted only by the soft murmurings of the tele screen. 

Molly wasn’t entirely sure what to think. This was entirely typical of Greg, sacrificing himself and his own sense of… of being, for someone else. But at the same time, it was going to tear him apart. She could see that. 

It wasn’t a nice thing to contemplate, but in this moment, Greg was so richly _human,_ it was astonishing. Molly knew she had always seen Greg as this sort of… hero. This otherworldly person above the trials and tribulations of humans, but he wasn’t. 

He wasn’t the Silver Knight, the person the Capitol was guilty of seeing him as, the same person she had often seen in him. And he was, quite often. He was good at playing the part, but she just wished he would be a little more selfish about some things. 

Because if Greg was a little more selfish, he would still be here. 

Immediately, Molly felt guilty for thinking that. She was practically wishing that Greg hadn’t volunteered for Alex, that Alex was the one in the Arena right now, and that was wrong. No one deserved that. No one deserved this. 

But perhaps no one deserved it less than Greg Lestrade. Brave, chivalrous, courageous Greg, who had always offered her and her family food when they needed it, who had taken John in out of kindness and selflessness, and demanded nothing in return. Nothing. 

And what did he get for his troubles?

Condemnation of the worst kind in an Arena designed for sport, just to amuse the floozy crowds of the Capitol, soaked in make-up, perfume and privilege. 

***

When Greg first said John’s name, on the roof of the building they were hiding in, Molly stood. John didn’t notice as she quietly slipped out of the room, and into the fields surrounding his house. 

What Greg had to say next was for John, and John alone. Sure, it was going to be heard by hundreds of thousands of people around Panem, but she could at least give John a little privacy. 

Sally made her way up the hill, her eyes wide, Maya by her side. Maya was still looking a little shell-shocked, and clutching Sally’s hand as if her life depended upon it. 

Molly smiled a tight smile at the both of them, sitting down on the grass and patting the spot next to her, letting Sally and Maya sit as well. 

They sat in silence for a few moments, before Sally spoke. 

‘Greg… I’ve never seen him like that before,’ she said, quietly. Molly nodded. 

‘I know,’ she replied. ‘I wish I could help him. I wish he could just come back now and let me hug him because no one should have to go through that.’ 

‘He’s guilty. So guilty.’ 

‘He is,’ Moly shrugged, ‘but would you expect anything less of Greg? He could have killed someone who had raped and murdered ten three-year-olds, and he would still feel guilty. All the worse for the fact that it was another teenager.’ 

Sally stayed entirely silent about the thing. Maya spoke next. ‘How do you think these Games are going to go?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ said Molly, honestly. ‘I have this sinking feeling, in the pit of my stomach, that Greg isn’t going to survive. I don’t know if he’s going to make it, and even I can’t deny the fact it doesn’t look good.’ 

‘It doesn’t, does it?’ said Sally, softly, anger in her voice. ‘It’s not fair.’ 

Shocking them all, Sally leapt to her feet, and shook her fist at the sky as if there was someone watching. ‘You hear that, you fuckers?! It’s not fair! It’s not!’

‘Sally,’ placated Maya.

‘No! I hope they fucking hear me because I mean it! None of this is right! It’s not fair! Greg is… Greg is the bravest, kindest human I know and it isn’t bloody fair that he gets taken from us! He did something for me, for my family, and all it gets him is shame and guilt and…’ 

The wind seemed to go out of the curly-haired girl’s sails, and she collapsed back to the ground next to Maya, her head in her hands. Molly saw that her shoulders began to shake, under the pressure, the weight.

There was silence, aside from her quietly muffled sobs. 

‘I don’t know Greg very well,’ said Maya, ‘but I can tell he’s brave, selfless, kind, and I wish he hadn’t gone, because I wish I knew him better. I wish I got to know him better when I had a chance. He… he’s like a beacon, really, isn’t he? A beacon for people, for hopeless cases, those people who are… lost. The ones who need him most.

‘Kinda like a fairy godmother from those fairytales, I suppose.’ 

Molly let out a low laugh. ‘Yeah. Though… Greg would look terrible in a dress.’ 

‘You think?’ said Maya, ‘I reckon he’d look great, actually. Those lovely arms…’ 

‘Hey!’ protested Sally, half-heartedly. Maya put her arm around her. 

‘Don’t take it personally, love,’ Maya said, ‘You know I don’t like dick. You’ve converted me.’ 

‘Hilarious,’ drawled Sally. Molly snorted. 

‘I think… everything is bullshit right now, Sal,’ said Molly, after a moment. ‘It’s all really shitty, and I hate that Greg has to do it, but we have to step up. I wish he wasn’t there, I wish he didn’t have to die at the hands of some stupid Career, but even if he makes it back, he’ll be different. He’ll have changed, forever. And there ain’t nothing we can do about it. So we gotta step up, Sal. We gotta be the people that Greg wants, the people that Greg saw in us from the start.’ 

‘I know,’ replied Sally, quietly. ‘But I don’t want to. I want Greg to do it.’ 

‘Haven’t we always wanted that,’ said Molly, quietly. ‘Haven’t we always wanted Greg to just… be here? To be here for the both of us, for everyone who came under his wing? We’ve always relied on him to be the Silver Knight, haven’t we? We’ve always asked so much of him and given so little in return.’ 

‘You’re right,’ whispered Sally. ‘We’ve all asked so much from him, haven’t we? We’ve asked him to be there, to listen, to give parts of himself, and now he’s given it to us willingly. He’s given us everything he has, his life, his honour, and now his moral integrity, so we can have our lives.’ 

‘We have,’ said Molly, softly, sadly. ‘But he gave it to us willingly. I don’t know how to spend that. I don’t know how.’ 

‘Neither do I,’ said Sally. ‘I don’t know what to do with it. He gave his life so Alex could have his, and it is a currency that I don’t think anyone will know how to spend, no matter how long they live.’ 

‘You wanna know what I think?’ asked Molly. 

Sally nodded. 

‘I think we need to live well. I think we need to be happy. That’s what Greg wanted. Even if he comes back, he won’t be the same.’ 

‘You have to know that he’s not going to come back,’ said Sally. ‘We shouldn’t be too optimistic. It’ll only make it hurt more.’ 

‘I know,’ said Molly. ‘But I hate having to see John. He still thinks Greg’s gonna survive, somehow. He reckons Greg’s just gonna struggle a bit, and then come back the same.’ 

Sally didn’t reply, just letting out a long, low sigh through her nose. There was silence. 

After a moment, ‘Do you want me to take care of him tonight, Molly?’ she asked. 

‘No,’ said Molly, laughing slightly. ‘I adore him, I want to take care of him for Greg. Well, not just for Greg, but because John is… incredible.’ 

‘He is, isn’t he?’ said Sally, wistfully. ‘Wonderful kid. Cute, too.’ 

‘Yeah, that doesn’t hurt,’ smiled Molly. 

‘You know, he said to me the other day, after we watched Greg find water, that it wasn’t my fault that Greg was gone. That I shouldn’t feel guilty.’ 

‘Well, it’s not like he was going to blame _you,’_ Molly shrugged. 

‘But I expected him to,’ protested Sally. ‘I expected for him to be angry with me. I’d be in his position. I’d hate me, because I’d think I put pressure on Greg to do it.’ 

‘John has been taught by Greg who the real enemy is,’ shrugged Molly. ‘He’s been told the truth, the reality of things.’ 

‘I suppose,’ said Sally. ‘But I’d still have expected him to be a bit angry with me.’ 

‘But he isn’t. What does that tell you?’ 

‘He told me it isn’t my fault. It’s the Capitol’s fault for putting Greg there.’ 

‘That’s because it is, in a lot of ways. Sure, we probably did put a bit of pressure on Greg to help us. To always be there for us, to be the stupid Silver Knight thing the Capitol people are harping on about, but the reality is still there that the Capitol put him there for their amusement. For their fun. So don’t feel too guilty, Sally, and the guilt you do have is what we share between us.’ 

‘I suppose,’ said Sally. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go back and check on your mum and Sam?’ 

‘It’s alright, Sal, I want to,’ said Molly, not unkindly, ‘I know my mum was a bit of a flight risk, but I’m sure that she’s coping.’ 

‘As much as we all are,’ Sally said, darkly. Molly snorted, because being amused was easier than being depressed.’ 

Sally snorted as well, and then helped up Maya, pecking the other girl on the cheek. 

‘Go home, Sal. Go home, Maya. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’ 

‘Alright,’ nodded Sally, taking Maya’s hand and heading back down off the hill, leaving Molly behind to consider their words. It was hard. For both of them. Nothing, of course, compared to what Greg had to be going through right now, but it is what it is. 

God, it sucked so much, right now. But she couldn’t do anything, and the sooner she accepted that, the sooner she could fight to do the things that she reasonably _could._

It wasn’t going to be easy. Greg had left some huge shoes to fill, the integrity, the morality, the strength of character and bravery. But she could do it. She would do it, for him, and for all the things Greg had done for her. 

All of it. 

The food he had given her after Dad had died. The times he had taken care of Sam, so she could go find food somehow. Even just the way he always offered, in the mornings, when she came by to get John, his own food. He had always offered it, even when he and John weren’t as full as they probably needed to be. 

‘Molly?!’ John’s call beckoned her back up to the house. Back into battle. 

***

‘Greg?’ asked Suzie, the next morning, upon finding him sitting up on the roof, the sword across his knees, leaning forwards and peering out over the Arena. 

‘Yes?’ he replied, looking over at her. ‘Are you alright?’ 

‘I’m fine. Have you been up here all night?’ 

Greg hummed an affirmative. Suzie tutted. 

‘You should’ve woken me, I want to help.’ 

‘It’s fine,’ Greg shrugged it off. ‘I couldn’t sleep anyway.’ 

‘How do you know that, if you’ve been sitting awake all night?’ 

‘I just do,’ said Greg. Suzie sat down next to him. 

‘Is this about Janine? Cause you have to know, Greg, they were already planning on killing me. If you hadn’t gotten Janine, they probably would’ve killed me last night.’ 

‘Okay,’ said Greg. ‘I just… I don’t want to kill people.’ 

‘I don’t think anyone does,’ said Suzie. ‘I don’t want to kill people.’ 

Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we should move out.’ 

‘Where are we gonna go?’ 

‘I dunno,’ he shrugged. ‘Although, in the opposite direction to Mycroft’s gang of psychos would be nice. They’ll be mad that I killed one of them.’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Suzie. ‘They’re over in this parkland sort of space, next to a lake. They’ve got all the supplies, as well. It’s that way.’ 

Suzie pointed to the east of where they were, in the direction that she and Janine had come from the day previous. 

‘It isn’t that far, but there is a water source closer. That’s why it’s so weird that Mycroft sent Janine and me over this way.’ 

‘Yeah,’ hummed Greg, his mind suddenly racing. ‘That is weird. Did he give a reason?’ 

‘He said we should go check on that girl they killed last night, to see if anything had been left behind we didn’t pick up. Which is kinda dumb, when you think about it, cause they definitely picked all the stuff from that girl anyway. And also, they have all the supplies over there, so it’s not like they need anything.’ 

‘Strange,’ shrugged Greg, seemingly brushing it off. But inside his mind, cogs were turning. After that strange look they had shared, and the ease with which Mycroft could have hunted him down, and Mycroft’s seemingly blank refusal to do so, could it be possible Mycroft sent Janine over here with Suzie, so that Greg could have her back? 

Particularly after what Mycroft said to him on the roof, as well. About how Suzie was his weakness, that she was going to be used against him? Mycroft didn’t seem the sort to give up an advantage to an unknown quantity. 

Greg found himself wishing that he could ask the other Tribute himself why he had done that. Why Mycroft had chosen to act in that way. 

It was strange.

There wasn’t really any other explanation for it, though. Mycroft surely wasn’t dumb enough to think that Greg would just leave Suzie with Janine. 

Or, perhaps, he did think that. Perhaps he didn’t think Greg had it in him to actually kill Janine, that this was some sort of sick test of his. 

There were just too many explanations, too many unanswered questions. It was strange. It was too difficult to think about right now.

Shrugging, he looked over at Suzie. 

‘So, maybe we should go the other direction,’ he suggested. Suzie grinned. 

‘Probably a good idea,’ she replied. ‘We should get some food, though.’ 

‘I have biscuits,’ said Greg, ‘There’s only a few left, so you’re right, we probably do need to get ahold of some food at some point. I’ll hunt some later. For now, we just need to get moving.’ 

‘Alright,’ nodded Suzie. 

Greg hummed, and got to his feet, the sword in hand, and swung his pack up onto his back. 

Just then, there was a whirring, beeping sound from the sky. A parachute was headed right for them, with a metal cylinder swinging in the breeze beneath it. 

‘Is that a parachute?’ asked Suzie, looking up from where she had been beginning to head for the stairs down the building. 

‘Yeah,’ said Greg, reaching up to catch the falling capsule. 

Suzie looked down, shuffling her feet. ‘I haven’t gotten any before.’ 

‘Really?’ asked Greg, disbelieving. 

‘Yeah,’ she nodded. ‘I guess I just don’t have any sponsors.’ 

‘I’m pretty sure we do,’ Greg said. ‘Maybe you just didn’t need anything.’ 

‘Well, I guess that could be it,’ said Suzie, looking up at him carefully. ‘I’ve been with Mycroft and the Careers for about two days now. They’ve been feeding me.’ 

‘At least they didn’t let you starve,’ Greg murmured, laying a hand on her shoulder. ‘Do you wanna see what’s inside?’ 

‘Yeah!’ said Suzie, nodding excitedly. Greg pursed his lips, and opened the canister. 

Inside was a couple of small, bread rolls, just like the ones in the Capitol, and a pack of thirty hard biscuits, the same kind as the ones he had in his bag. 

‘Supplies,’ said Greg. ‘Guess this means Dimmock wants us to just keep running.’ 

‘I dunno,’ Suzie replied, ‘Maybe he just wants us to be fed.’ 

Greg didn’t really want to burst her bubble. Dimmock knew he could hunt, and hunt well, so there was no reason to send them these supplies, unless it was for a good reason. 

This was only reinforced when he plucked out the note that had been buried at the bottom of the canister, and read what it said. 

In scratchy, loopy script Greg recognised as Dimmock’s was a single word. _Run._

‘Shit,’ Greg swore. This could only mean one thing. Someone was coming for them, and fast. They had to leave now. 

‘Suzie,’ Greg said, lowly, plucking the canister out of her hands and capping it, before shoving it in his bag. ‘We have to go now.’ 

‘What? Why? What’s the rush?’ 

‘There’s someone coming.’ 

‘How do you know?’ asked Suzie. 

‘I just do,’ he replied. ‘We need to get out of here now. Leave nothing behind. Take the parachute, too.’

Grabbing the parachute almost violently from her outstretched hands, Greg crammed the thing into his bag on top of the canister, and zipped the bag closed, before flinging it onto his back. It landed with a bit of a _thunk,_ knocking the wind from his lungs. There was no time to recapture it, thought, and so Greg grabbed Suzie’s hand, and led her across the roof to another rickety, metal fire escape. 

Suzie struggled to get down as quickly as Greg could, startling at every sudden sound. Greg tugged her along in his wake, and they were quick down the side of the building, heading for the alleys, choked up with weeds and vines. 

‘Greg,’ Suzie panted, behind him. ‘Slow down. Please, just a bit.’ 

‘No,’ snapped Greg, holding her hand tighter and dragging her through the undergrowth. ‘We can’t. If we wait around, Mycroft and Irene and Moriarty are going to find us.’ 

Suzie let out a low whimper, but managed to speed up, keeping pace with Greg. They moved through the undergrowth at a fast pace, and it wasn’t until Greg was satisfied that they had moved a reasonable distance from their hiding place for the night that Greg was happy to slow down a little. 

Suzie panted next to him, leaning against him like a pillar as she caught her breath, clearly unused to having to run long distances. 

Suddenly, from behind them, there was a loud, almost animalistic howl. 


	18. Daylight

The animalistic howl caught Greg’s attention, and he turned to look back in the direction they had come, all the while shoving Suzie into the nearby bushes, then following suit. Scanning his eyes up, Greg immediately caught sight of four people on the roof they had been on not ten minutes previous. 

There were two taller boys, one shorter boy, and a woman with long, black hair coiffed up around her head. 

‘The Careers,’ Greg breathed. ‘They’re up there. They knew where we were hiding.’ 

‘Really?’ whispered Suzie, leaning against Greg. 

‘Yeah,’ Greg whispered back, squinting to try and make out more details of what was going on. 

He could see Mycroft, ginger hair bright in the sunlight. He was calmly pacing, the rapier by his side glinting under the brilliant morning sunshine the Arena had blessed them with that morning. It was a far-cry from the grey washed-out weather of the days previous. 

Next to Mycroft’s tall frame was a large, hulking, brutish mess of muscle who appeared to be holding some sort of blunt weapon, a hammer at Greg’s best guess. 

‘Suzie,’ Greg hissed. ‘There’s another tall one, up there on the roof. He’s not a Career, I don’t think, if Janine’s dead, there should only be three of them.’ 

‘That’s Sebastian,’ replied Suzie. ‘Sebastian Moran. He’s from District Four.’ 

Greg nodded. 

Sebastian was pacing back and forth, like a caged tiger. Between Sebastian and Mycroft was Irene, her features unmistakeable. She looked elegant, even in the rugged clothes that all the Tributes were wearing. 

One glance over, and Greg could immediately see which of them had made that animalistic howl. Jim Moriarty, the other male Career from District Two, the same as Janine, was pacing back and forth. The shorter Tribute was waving his hands in the air, one hand holding a razor-thin dagger that glinted in the sunlight, and the other hand occupied with a thin, snake-like whip that thrashed back and forth like an angry cat’s tail. 

He looked angry, even just from this quick glance. 

Good. 

Being angry would make the Tribute sloppy. He’d make mistakes that perhaps he wouldn’t have were he calmer. 

Greg couldn’t at all make out what they were saying, but it did seem like Moriarty was frothing at the mouth. Mycroft seemed perfectly calm, examining his blade the way one would examine their nails; disinterestedly. Irene was doing the same with one of her own daggers. Sebastian was pacing, restlessly, clearly in reaction to Moriarty’s own agitated movements. 

‘What’s going on?’ hissed Suzie, right in Greg’s ear. 

‘They’re looking for us,’ replied Greg, watching as Mycroft stepped up to Moriarty, clearly attempting to placate. Moriarty didn’t really seem to be going for it, though, as he paced ever more quickly. ‘I don’t think any of them know where we’ve gone, though.’ 

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ questioned Suzie. 

Greg nodded. ‘It is, but I don’t think it’ll last long.’ 

‘I don’t either,’ replied Suzie. ‘Mycroft’s really good at tracking people. He found that girl, the one who died on the second day. And he found me, too, by following my path.’ 

Greg didn’t reply. Mycroft was a good tracker, but he didn’t know about the rest of them. 

‘What about Moriarty and that? Are they good at it as well?’ 

‘I guess,’ shrugged Suzie. ‘I don’t know, really, though. Jim and Irene didn’t really do much. It was mostly Mycroft, he left like he was just popping down to the market for something to eat, and he was back within an hour, often. But it doesn’t matter. Mycroft’s good enough to find us, Greg. We gotta do something!’ 

Greg didn’t say anything in response. He didn’t know if Mycroft was going to try and find them. He didn’t. 

Looking back up at the roof, Greg saw what he hoped he wouldn’t see. Mycroft seemed to have calmed Moriarty down, and they were now huddled, seemingly discussing options. 

After a moment of conversation, they seemed to split up, and Mycroft moved to the side of the roof closest to Greg and Suzie, while the others moved off in other directions. It looked like they were attempting to find Greg and Suzie’s path. 

They could have moved off along the roofs, and gotten down through another building, they could have gone down the fire escape, or they could have gone down the stairs. But the roof option provided the most variables, and led to too many. Greg knew. 

Mycroft was approaching the side of the roof closest to them, and looking over the warren of back alleys with a careful eye. Greg knew he would be sweeping, scanning, almost like a camera. _Like_ a camera, really. 

‘Suzie, get down,’ he hissed at the blond Tribute. Suzie nodded, and got down, hunching into a ball just behind Greg. Greg followed suit, looking out through a tiny gap in the leaves. 

He could feel the grass under his behind, and Suzie, a warm weight against his back, as Mycroft looked over the side of the building. As soon as Mycroft began to follow the line of the fire escape, Greg realised the Career knew where they were. 

He had probably known all along, and hadn’t mentioned it to Moriarty, who, in his anger, wasn’t as aware as Mycroft. 

But he hadn’t mentioned it. 

Why? 

Why would Mycroft do that? 

Was it for the same reason he hadn’t killed Greg the other day, after he killed that girl who set the fire? 

Greg watched Mycroft, carefully, as the other Tribute inspected the path he and Suzie had followed, through the underbrush, before resting his eyes exactly where Greg and Suzie were hiding. 

Then, his eyes glossed over the place, hunting around for where Greg and Suzie had gone. Clearly, he hadn’t realised that they were both in the bush. 

For Greg, time slowed down. 

What should he do? Could Mycroft be trusted? Could he be trusted to know where Suzie and he were hiding? 

Suzie sneezed. 

Shit. 

Greg looked up in time to see Mycroft’s slate grey eyes widen, and peer at their bush again. But Greg was shocked to see a look of surprise flash briefly across the other Tribute’s face. It was a subtle thing, a slight widening of the eyes, a stiffening of the posture. 

Then, Mycroft did something strange. 

The taller ginger cocked his head to the side, and gestured slightly with it, as if indicating that Greg should go. That Greg should run. 

What? 

Why? 

If he left the bush now, Mycroft would see him. Mycroft already had seen him. 

Well, what did he and Suzie have to lose? 

Mycroft made the gesture again, and that was all the impetus Greg needed. Grabbing Suzie by the hand, he hurried her out of the bush, under Mycroft’s eye. 

Tugging her as quickly as he could, and as silently, they passed through the alley, then ducked around a corner. Greg tugged Suzie to himself, holding her tightly against his chest. Moss pressed to his back, as he counted to sixty slowly in his head. 

Suzie was breathing quietly against his chest, the fast breaths of someone who had exerted themselves, as well as someone who was scared, afraid, nervous for their life. 

Greg couldn’t really blame her. It could all be a trick. Mycroft and Moriarty and Irene and Sebastian could all suddenly jump out from that corner and skewer both Suzie and Greg through. 

As Greg’s count reached zero, he quietly poked his head around the corner, just in time to see Mycroft turn his back, and very obviously shrug. It was a gesture that told Greg he had lied. 

But why? Why would Mycroft do that?

That was the question of the day, really, wasn’t it? Why?

But, Greg was well-versed in ignoring things he didn’t want to face. The guilt over Janine’s death hadn’t gone away. Overnight, it had blunted, still as deadly, but just a little less sharply painful. Instead it had become a soul-deep aching. And Greg was adept at ignoring it. After hours and hours and hours thinking about it, and not coming to any sort of conclusion, any sort of resolution, it was just easier to ignore it. 

He knew it wasn’t going to go away, but hopefully he’d die before that was any sort of problem. Before that issue had to be confronted in any way at all. 

‘Greg,’ said Suzie, quietly, after just a moment of silence. ‘What’s going on?’ 

‘I… I’m not sure,’ said Greg, honestly. ‘I think we’ve gotten away, though.’ 

‘But didn’t Mycroft see us?’ 

‘Exactly,’ replied Greg. ‘I think we’re fine. They’re gone now.’ 

‘They could be coming after us,’ hissed Suzie. ‘You think they’re gone, I know, but they aren’t actually gone. They come back. They’re just going around to circle us, Greg!’

Her voice became increasingly high-pitched, panicked, until Greg placed a hand over her face. 

‘Shhh!’ he hissed at her. ‘You gotta be quiet for that very reason. I’ll tell you why I don’t think we have anything to worry about for now just a bit later, alright? Right now, we need to leave. We need to get away from the Careers as fast as we possibly can, and get as far away as we possibly can.’ 

Suzie didn’t reply, and Greg waited a moment, before taking his hand off her mouth, and then taking her small hand in his once more. Tugging, he pulled her behind him through the small alleyway, and then around a corner. 

If he remembered rightly from that morning, a more major road with tree coverage was coming up just ahead, around another turn, so if they made it through to there, then they would have more coverage. 

He tugged the younger Tribute around another sharp corner, and he spotted it, up ahead. The richer, denser coverage of trees provided by a more major road. It was a quick matter to tug Suzie along into the trees, and then he could slow his pace. 

Suzie stepped up beside him, once they had slowed to a more acceptable pace for her smaller legs. 

She panted out a few breaths. ‘What was that, Greg?’ 

‘We just escaped from the Careers, that’s what,’ he replied, almost factually. There was still a rather fucking large amount of adrenaline pumping through his limbs, and it made him feel light and airy. Of course, this was in addition to the slight wooziness he felt due to the simple fact he had not slept the night previous. 

It all added up to a picture that Greg would need to stop in a few moments, because once the adrenaline fled his limbs, he was going to need to sit down. 

Suzie let out a small laugh of relief, and victory. ‘We did?’ 

‘Yeah,’ replied Greg. ‘I think we did.’ 

‘I didn’t think we were gonna. I didn’t, on the second day. I thought I was going to die!’ 

‘What happened?’ asked Greg, before suddenly changing his mind. The adrenaline was fading, and Greg spotted a small alcove up ahead, with a tree standing in front of it. It looked like the perfect spot to sit down, for a moment. 

Greg sped up a little, and Suzie panicked, pushing herself to follow him as he threw himself down behind the tree, and leaned back against it. 

Letting out a huffing sigh, Greg leant his head back against the bark at his back, and then pulled his bottle out of his bag, taking a few quick chugs from it. 

‘Sorry,’ said Greg, exhaling sharply. ‘I needed to sit down.’ 

‘It’s alright,’ replied Suzie. 

‘So, what were you saying? What happened to you? Start at the beginning, I didn’t see where you went after the cannon fired at the Clock Tower.’ 

‘Oh, well, I ran off down that road that you saw behind me, the one that was directly across from you. I didn’t pick anything up, no supplies, nothing. I just sprinted as far and as fast as I could.’ 

‘That’s good,’ Greg muttered. ‘But how did you survive without supplies?’ 

‘I didn’t,’ she shrugged. ‘I found some berries to eat by the water, but I couldn’t find anything to drink. I didn’t want to drink the water cause I thought it’d be contaminated, like it said at the survival station back at the Training Centre.’ 

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Greg. ‘I was lucky, I got a bottle with a filter to clean the water.’ 

‘Lucky,’ Suzie said, wistfully.

‘So what happened after you ran off?’ 

‘Well, the way I went, there were few more of the skyscrapers, the ones that are really broken down and falling apart.’ 

‘Yeah?’ 

‘I went that way, and I kept going, and I slept underneath this big, empty metal box that had been turned over. Then, I kept going, all through the morning of the second day. 

‘Out the way I went, quite some distance along, you reach this flooded bit. I think that whole area is actually flooded, as far as I can tell. And the skyscrapers are still there. It’s actually really pretty - all the skyscrapers poke out of the flooded waters. It’s practically an ocean.’ 

‘Yeah?’ asked Greg, leaning forwards on his knees. 

‘Mmm,’ hummed Suzie, ‘But I couldn’t stay there. I tried to swim out to one of the skyscrapers but it’s really deep. I’m not a very strong swimmer, so I had to turn back. When I got back to dry land, I got this horrible sense someone was following me.’ 

‘Yeah, I know what you mean,’ commented Greg, darkly. 

‘So I ran. I kept running, I was really wet and quite cold, cause I’d tried to swim, but it was no use. They… he…’ Suzie stopped, looking away, clutching her fists in the ground. 

‘Greg… I thought I was going to die. He hunted me like I was some kind of animal through the destroyed buildings. I couldn’t run fast enough and he caught me. It was so _easy_ for him. That was the worst part.’ 

‘I know,’ whispered Greg. Suzie reached out for him, quietly, and Greg was happy to deliver, folding the younger Tribute into his arms, quietly. 

She turned her face into his shoulder, just as Greg raised a hand to the back of her head. 

‘He just… _appeared._ I don’t know how, or where, or why, but he just appeared. I thought I’d found a good hiding spot, right in the back of an alley, but I hadn’t. That was the worst part. He found me so easily.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ said Greg. 

‘I’m so happy you saved me from Janine,’ said Suzie, quietly. ‘Moriarty… last night… he said all these things to me. Horrible things about how he was going to torture me before killing me. How he thought I knew where you were. Where you had gone. And that he was going to make me scream so loudly that you’d hear.’ 

Greg was shocked into silence, his soothing strokes down Suzie’s back stilling. 

‘Greg?’ asked Suzie, querulously, against his shoulder. 

‘Sorry,’ whispered Greg. ‘He’s a bit insane, Moriarty, isn’t he?’ 

‘That’s an understatement,’ Suzie shot back. ‘He’s crazy. Mad.’ 

‘Don’t listen to what he said,’ Greg muttered. 

‘I hope he doesn’t win,’ Suzie replied. ‘I think I’d enjoy coming back and haunting him, though.’ 

That shocked a laugh out of Greg. He raised an eyebrow at her. 

‘Well, I suppose that is a benefit of being dead,’ he replied. This smile was the first he’d had in what felt like a long time. It felt good. Really good. 

Suzie hummed her agreement, before sitting back, and snatching the bottle of water out of Greg’s hands. Greg made a play to get it back, half-heartedly, but let her sip from the bottle anyway. 

‘So, other than that, you managed to spy on them a bit, I suppose.’ 

‘Yep!’ Suzie nodded, proudly. ‘I did.’ 

‘What did you see?’ 

‘Well, you know that big one? Sebastian? He’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s super loyal to Moriarty. It’s actually really creepy. He’s a bit like a zombie, following them around.’ 

‘That is creepy,’ agreed Greg. 

Suzie fiddled with her hair, absently. ‘Oh, and then there’s Irene. Irene’s a bit like Moriarty. Except she’s crueler. Moriarty is just having what he thinks is fun, but Irene’s a bit more methodical in the way she acts.’ 

‘In what way?’ 

‘Well, she’s really good with her knives, so she does a lot of hunting. They don’t have any meat in the supplies, only vegetables and crackers and things like that. So Irene goes out and she brought back rabbits and turkeys and things.’ 

‘They let you have some?’ 

‘No. Well… they didn’t let me. I don’t think Irene or Janine or Moriarty wanted me to have any.’ 

‘But…’ prompted Greg.

‘Mycroft gave me some.’ 

‘Mycroft?’ asked Greg, sharply, surprised. Suzie nodded, flipping her tangled knot of hair over her shoulder. 

‘Yeah,’ she shrugged. ‘I was as surprised as you are.’ 

‘What’s he like?’ Greg asked, taking a breath and trying to hide any sort of betraying facial expression.

‘He’s…’ Suzie trailed off, clearly deep in thought. ‘Confusing,’ she settled on, a moment later. 

‘Yeah, I get what you mean,’ Greg said, darkly, rolling his eyes. ‘Fucking confusing bastard.’ 

‘Mmm,’ hummed Suzie. ‘He was the one who gave me food. When I was hungry. But he didn’t do it while everyone else was eating. He did it in secret, once all the other Careers had fallen asleep. When he was on watch, he’d sit next to me.’ 

‘Did you talk to him?’ asked Greg, curiously. 

‘No,’ shrugged Suzie. ‘He just gave me food, then sat there. Like a statue, really.’ 

‘Creepy,’ commented Greg. 

Suzie didn’t reply. Not right away, anyway. 

‘Well,’ she said, after a moment, ‘that wasn’t really the sense I got from him. More… I don’t think he’s creepy.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘Well, obviously, he was creepy and scary when he found me on the second day, but out of all the Tributes, he was the only one who was actually kind to me. Strange as it may sound. 

‘I know you and Dimmock both think he’s gonna be the Victor, and I can’t blame you, cause he’s really smart. Crazy smart. And all the other Careers, they listen to him. He’s their leader, easily. He has this thing where he listens to what the rest of them say, I heard them do it. He listens to them, but then he says something, and somehow, they end up all agreeing to it. To his ideas.’ 

‘Oh,’ was all Greg could say. 

‘He told me the first night I was with them that I needed to keep my strength, and he gave me food. I don’t know why.’ 

‘I don’t either,’ said Greg. 

‘He uses this really thin sword, but I’ve seen him use other weapons, as well. He can throw knives, I saw him practice, and shoot a bow and arrow.’ 

Greg didn’t reply, just humming in thought. Suzie was messing with her hair now, fiddling with the knots, and trying desperately to undo them. To little success, of course. 

Reaching out, Greg began to fiddle with her hair as well, teasing open the knots absentmindedly, just like he used to do for Molly and Sally. Suzie looked up at him, in surprise, but let it slide. 

‘What happened, earlier?’ asked Suzie, after a moment. 

Greg took in a steadying, steeling breath. He had desperately hoped that Suzie had just kind of forgotten about that. No such luck, apparently. 

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, in an attempt to procrastinate. Suzie just gave him a withering look. 

‘Before. When we were running from the Careers. Mycroft and Irene and Jim were up on that roof and you made us leave while Mycroft was watching. Because he told you to.’ 

‘Um…’ 

‘Greg…’ said Suzie, softly, ‘Are we safe? Did we walk into a trap or something? Is that what you’re hiding?’ 

‘No, no, no, of course not,’ Greg reassured her. ‘We’re fine.’ 

‘Then why did you go where Mycroft could see us?’ 

‘Because… I don’t know, really, Suzie,’ replied Greg, honestly. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself the same question.’ 

‘Mycroft let us go, didn’t he?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Greg, sticking to straight honesty. ‘He let us go.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘I don’t know, Suzie, that’s the problem here. I was hiding in the bushes with you and he told me to leave. He gestured for me to take you and run and I still don’t know why.’ 

‘Oh…’ said Suzie, seemingly lost for words. 

‘Yeah, and the same thing happened a few days ago, he had just killed that girl from Three, right near where I was staying that night. And I accidentally showed myself cause I thought you were all gone —‘ 

‘Hey, I remember that!’ interjected Suzie. ‘He stayed behind to collect some water, I thought.’ 

‘No,’ Greg shook his head. ‘He stayed behind because he had spotted me. But he didn’t come after me… I’m still alive, as you can see. No, he just kinda stood there. We both did. And then he walked away.’ 

‘That’s weird,’ said Suzie, pensively. ‘Back at the Careers camp, they all had this strange obsession with finding _you._ It’s why they kept me alive. As bait for you.’ 

‘Well, didn’t it turn out well for them,’ joked Greg, finding it strangely far easier than it should have been. Suzie let out a low giggle, and Greg smiled. 

There was a moment of companionable silence, before Greg pulled out a bit of the cord from the parachute, and cut it with the edge of his knife. ‘Here, let me tie up your hair properly for you.’ 

‘How do you know how to do that?’ asked Suzie, as she acquiesced to Greg’s ministrations. 

‘I’m very clever,’ he teased, ‘and I have two friends with a lot of hair.’ 

‘Hilarious,’ drawled Suzie, just like someone twice her age would. 

It was funny, but it also made Greg unbearably sad. She had to go through this at such a young age, and it was going to force her to become far older than she needed to be. 

Greg was praying beyond prayer that Suzie would survive this. That would, of course, mean his death, but this little girl now deserved far more than he ever did to go home. She deserved to have a chance to be a little girl again, to play with her hair and grow up and find a nice girl or a nice boy to settle down with and have plenty of cute kids. 

She had her whole life ahead of her and it was being ripped from her by these stupid Games. 

This was all too much to think about. His guilt over killing Janine, over Suzie in these Games, his sadness over everything he had already lost and was going to lose, Mycroft’s confusing fucking _existence,_ it was all just too much. 

And John. John, waiting on the other side of that tele screen for him, someone who was never going to come home. Because he wasn’t going to come home. He had accepted that fact. 

He was certain of it. 

It was one of the only certain things he had left. 

Everything else was static, changing far too quickly for Greg to truly understand. It was all whipping by past his eyes before he could clutch onto anything for very long. 

So quickly that moments like these, the quiet moments between breaths where he ties up Suzie’s hair with a makeshift hair tie, these were important. They mattered more than anything else. 

‘There,’ Greg said, patting Suzie on the shoulder. ‘All done.’ 

‘Thanks,’ said Suzie. ‘I still don’t quite get how you know that. And you seem to have a lot of not-romantic girls who are just friends.’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Greg, weakly. ‘I suppose I do.’ 

Again, there was silence, as Greg began to pack their things up. 

‘Hey Suzie,’ Greg said, after a moment, ‘Has anyone ever shown you how to set a trap?’ 

***

After Greg had finished helping Suzie set up traps, they climbed up inside a building, finding a small nook inside what looked like it was once someone’s bedroom. 

‘You’re gonna sleep tonight, right?’ asked Suzie, quietly. 

‘Yes, of—’ 

Suddenly, the sound of a cannon rocketed out over the Arena. It was a sharp sound, reverberating in Greg’s ears, and Suzie shrieked, in surprise. 

‘Someone just died,’ said Greg, quietly, after the sound of the cannon had stopped. Sally just nodded. 

‘Who do you think it was?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ Greg replied, his mind already racing. He honestly doubted it was one of the Careers, but his mind couldn’t help but immediately leap to the thought of Mycroft. 

What if Mycroft was dead? What then?

What if Moriarty, or Irene, or someone had found out that Mycroft knew where Greg and Suzie had gone? What if, in some sort of rage, they’d killed the leading Career? 

It seemed unlikely, but Greg couldn’t help the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

‘Come on,’ Greg said, gesturing for Suzie to follow him up and onto the roof. ‘The deaths for the day should start soon. We’ll be able to see who just died.’ 

‘How many people are left?’ Suzie asked, briefly. 

Greg thought it through. 

There was himself, and Suzie. That made two. Then, there was Mycroft, Irene, Moriarty and the District Four brute - Sebastian. That made six. But there had been sixteen deaths. Seventeen, including the one today. Therefore - 

‘Seven,’ he replied shortly. 

Suzie let out a long sigh through her nose. 

‘That’s not very many.’ 

‘No,’ Greg said, ‘It isn’t. It means that aside from us, and the Careers and Sebastian, there’s only one other Tribute left alive. But it does buy us a bit of time.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘I don’t think the Careers are gonna try come after us tomorrow. I think Mycroft will lead them away.’ 

‘You trust him,’ accused Suzie. 

‘He lied for us,’ Greg reminded her. ‘I know I’m probably a bit stupid for doing this, but I do. I trust Mycroft to lay off. He’s been doing it so far for reasons that are completely unclear to me, but one thing you learn when dealing with livestock is you don’t look a damn gift horse in the mouth. He isn’t coming after us, and I don’t think he’ll come after us tomorrow. So we need to use the time we have to get as far away as we can, as quickly as we can. We need to find a hiding spot good enough to fool Mycroft Holmes.’ 

‘I think that’s impossible,’ said Suzie, darkly. ‘I thought I’d found one, and I was wrong.’ 

‘I know,’ said Greg, quietly. ‘And if some strange, otherworldly force hadn’t been holding him back all this time, I think he would have found me and killed me, as well. I’ve done some pretty reckless things in the Arena. I don’t know why he hasn’t caught me yet, to be honest.’ 

‘Mmm,’ hummed Suzie. ‘I don’t know either.’ 

‘It’s fine, Suzie,’ Greg shrugged it off. ‘We just gotta keep going for as long as we can.’ 

‘Okay,’ nodded Suzie, resolutely. ‘So, what’s the plan?’ 

‘I think… tomorrow, I think we should take up those snares, and then we should head over back to where I was hiding when the Games first started. We might have a bit of a better chance of hiding there.’ 

‘Why did you come back this way, anyway?’ asked Suzie. 

‘Because,’ Greg replied, looking away at the sun, setting on the horizon. ‘The Gamemakers set a fire.’ 

‘A fire?!’ Suzie yelped.

‘Yeah,’ Greg said, sheepishly rubbing a hand through his hair. ‘They set a fire and it drove me back towards where that pond was that we were at yesterday? Where I killed Janine?’ 

‘Oh, yeah, right,’ nodded Suzie. 

‘I think they did it because they wanted me to be closer to the other Tributes. Wouldn’t put it past them,’ he huffed. 

Just then, the anthem of the Capitol began, the grand tune ringing out over the Arena. The emblem flashed up overhead, and Greg leaned back to watch. 

Suzie was quiet, watching avidly. 

The emblem faded, and an image of the boy from District Nine flashed up on the screen. Suzie looked away, sadly. 

‘Did you know him?’ asked Greg, after the emblem and the image faded away, with the anthem. 

‘No,’ replied Suzie. ‘Not well, anyway. We worked together briefly at the survival skills station. He was really good, actually.’ 

‘Shame,’ said Greg, softly.

‘It’s sad, isn’t it Greg,’ commented Suzie. ‘It’s really sad how all these other kids have to die. He was only a few years older than me, and his Mum and Dad never get to see him again.’ 

‘Yeah,’ agreed Greg. ‘I know what you mean. I feel that way, too. It is really sad. I’m kinda angry about it, too.’ 

‘So am I,’ agreed Suzie. ‘I just wish that none of this had happened. Not to me. When I was a little girl, I would watch the Games, and as you know, I thought that no one actually died. I saw everyone sad at the Reaping, but I thought it was cause no one wanted to get away from they parents. 

‘I thought it was really competitive, and I thought I’d never get chosen.’ 

‘I never thought it’d happen to me, either,’ Greg said, softly. 

‘You volunteered,’ Suzie pointed out.

‘Yeah,’ replied Greg, ‘I volunteered for one of my friends’ brothers. Little kid named Alex Donovan. He was really sick - I don’t think he’d have made it very far in the Games. I couldn’t see that happen to Sally, so I volunteered.’ 

‘That was brave of you,’ said Suzie. ‘I don’t think I could have ever been that brave.’ 

‘Well,’ said Greg, ‘I don’t think it was about being brave. Not on my end, anyway. For me, it was more about not letting Sally be sad. Because she would have been so sad. She’s already lost her Mum and her Dad, I didn’t want to see her have to lose any more.’ 

‘Isn’t it bad enough that she’s losing you?’ 

‘I suppose,’ shrugged Greg, ‘but better me than her baby brother, the boy she swore to her mother that she’d protect.’ 

Suzie was quiet a moment. 

‘What about John?’ she asked, after a heavy silence. Greg looked out into the darkening sky with a weary sigh. 

‘He can live without me,’ Greg said. ‘I’m not his real father, and there are always going to be people around to take care of him for me. And I’ve left him my whole farm, so hopefully he won’t ever go hungry. He’s old enough to keep going to school, doesn’t need me the way Alex needs Sally. 

‘He just has to stay in school, remember I love him, and live a good life. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for him, and my being there or not being there isn’t going to change the fact the kid has talent, he’s clever, and he knows how to survive, to handle himself.’ 

‘That’s sad,’ said Suzie. ‘And, I think you’re wrong. I think John does need you. More than you think.’ 

‘I suppose,’ said Greg, softly. 

Suzie let out a sigh, leaning against Greg in the dying light, and looking out over the Arena. 

After a moment, the younger girl stood, looking as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. ‘Come on,’ she gestured to him. ‘We should go downstairs. I want to go to sleep, and I reckon you do, too.’ 

Greg let out a low laugh. ‘You’d be right,’ he muttered, raising himself to his feet, and following in her footsteps back down the stairs. She led him back down into the bedroom they’d set up. 

‘You take the sleeping bag,’ Greg gestured, ‘I’ll take the floor. I have my coat, I’ll be fine.’ 

‘Greg,’ Suzie said, looking up at him softly. ‘I don’t… I don’t thinkwanna sleep by myself.’ 

‘Are you sure?’ 

‘Greg, when I was scared at night, my Mum would come and hug me and sleep with me. I don’t care you’re a boy, I just…’ 

Greg crumbled, and came to sit down next to Suzie, unfurling the sleeping bag and tucking himself inside. Then, he opened his arms to her. 

‘Of course,’ he said, softly. ‘In District Ten, I had to share a bed with John. It was horrible, you know. He used to knee me all the time, and when he forgot his socks, it was just the worst. His feet get very cold, you see.’ 

Suzie let out a low laugh. 

‘But it does help, doesn’t it?’ 

‘Yeah,’ agreed Suzie. 

‘I miss the District. Do you?’ 

‘More than anything,’ confessed Suzie. ‘Ever since we came here, all I’ve wanted is to go home. I liked wearing the nice dresses and eating more food than I’ve ever eaten in my life and being made up by Venus and Paxton and Narelle, but… but I wanted to give it all up just to get on that train and go home.’ 

‘What was your favourite part of the District?’ asked Greg, in hushed tones. The room was practically pitch black, now, and their quiet whisperings made it smaller. 

With such a small body in his arms, he could perhaps remember John even more vividly, now. John’s affection and quiet clinging to Greg to help him through his nightmares. 

‘My favourite part… hmmm…’ Suzie said, thoughtfully, pressing tightly into Greg’s side. ‘I think my favourite part was the bakery on the main street where I lived. The baker used to make the most incredible tasting cakes.’ 

‘Really?’ asked Greg, incredulous. ‘Me too! I loved cakes. Our baker was really very expensive, so I had to give him lots of eggs to get a few slices. But on John’s birthday I always made an effort to go get some, and he’d also give me some icing for John, specially.’ 

‘That’s amazing,’ said Suzie. ‘I never got any icing, but I did get to lick a little off the baker’s spoon once, when I was very young.’ 

‘Icing’s great. It’s really sweet and sugary and it melts on your tongue like nothing else in the world.’ 

‘Oh, don’t make me wish for something _else,_ Greg,’ Suzie sighed, in mock irritation. 

‘I also miss my cows,’ added Greg. 

‘Your _cows?_ ’ Suzie said, absolutely shocked. Greg nodded in the darkness. 

‘Yeah,’ said Greg. ‘They were the best. Always faithful and always came when I asked. Always produced milk, and when they were old, they were good about the whole death thing.’ 

‘You had to kill them?’ 

‘Of course,’ said Greg. ‘It’s always sad when you have to kill one, but I do it because it means we get meat, and I even get to keep some of it, some to sell on, some to eat myself. It’s one thing we always had enough of, meat.’ 

‘That’s good,’ said Suzie. ‘We used to run out, sometimes. We had meat, but then it never lasted very long.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ said Greg, softly. ‘I wish I’d been around to give you some when times were tough.’ 

‘You did,’ Suzie replied, quietly. ‘Once. We were at the market. I was with my Mum, playing with a few other kids there. My Mum was really skinny at the time, cause my Dad had just died, and so you came up to her with a small parcel of beef, and you gave it to her. I thought it was the best thing anyone had ever done for us. Don’t you remember?’ 

Greg blinked. 

‘Vaguely,’ he replied. ‘I think…’ 

‘Well,’ said Suzie. ‘Thank you. For that, I mean. Even if you don’t remember doing it.’ 


	19. Brother

The next morning, Greg woke Suzie as soon as the sun touched the horizon, colouring the sky pink. Suzie grunted, and batted at his face. 

‘Hey, we have to get up,’ hissed Greg, ‘We should get an early start. I’ve already packed most things up.’ 

‘Shuddup…’ mumbled Suzie. Greg almost laughed. She clearly wasn’t a morning person. 

‘C’mon Suzie, the earlier we get going and check the traps, the sooner we can get away from the Careers.’ 

‘Don’t wanna…’ 

‘Suzie,’ Greg muttered, tugging at her. ‘I really don’t want Moriarty or Irene to catch up with us. That means we gotta get going now.’ 

‘They won’t,’ said Suzie. ‘Mycroft keeps protecting you. Doesn’t matter if we sleep in until midday.’ 

‘Suzie!’ Greg said, pulling her out of the sleeping bag. She let out a yelp of unhappiness, swinging and punching him weakly in the chest.

‘You bastard,’ she hissed, but sat up anyway, and rubbed her eyes. Greg tutted. 

‘Girl your age shouldn’t know words like that.’ 

‘I heard my Mum call another man that once,’ Suzie explained. ‘He wasn’t a very nice man, though.’ 

‘Oh,’ Greg replied, weakly. ‘That’s… nice.’ 

He pulled the bag he had already packed up neatly onto his back, before helping Suzie to her feet. She clearly wasn’t a morning person, going by her grouchy attitude. 

‘You’re a delight in the morning,’ he teased her. She just sent him a baleful look, before taking a sip of water from the bottle he handed her. 

‘Shut up,’ she repeated, under her breath, swinging her hair over her shoulder. Greg let out a low chuckle, and followed as she made for the stairs down. 

He was unusually chipper this morning. Particularly compared to yesterday morning. Then again, yesterday morning he had been fighting against a horrible tide of miserable feelings of guilt over the death of Janine he had caused. Not his best moment, he had to admit. 

Although, this avoidance technique was holding up fairly well. 

Last night he had slept well, particularly with Suzie cuddled up beside him just like John would have done. It was both jarring and comforting, really. 

Jarring, in that it was far too similar to John being with him. He couldn’t imagine John in the Arena, he just couldn’t. For all that he said John was a brave little soldier, with a will like iron and a strength of character commonly seen in people three times his age, he was still a child. The thought of him being in the Arena was far too horrifying for Greg to ever possibly contemplate. Bad enough he had to be in here. 

The comforting side of it was that it did remind him of John. It reminded him of everything he stood to lose. The reason he was fighting this goddamn losing battle, as well. 

Suzie grunted next to him, as they made their way down the steps, and onto the road beyond. 

‘We should go check on the traps,’ Greg said, leading them off in the direction of the traps they had laid the day previous. They weren’t too far off, thank goodness. Greg had chosen their sleeping spot well. 

The first trap, he had set up in a small corner of woods near to a water source. 

‘Look,’ said Suzie, excited to see that a turkey had been captured in the first trap. ‘We actually caught something!’ 

Greg smiled at her enthusiasm, following as she bounded up to the trap, and peered inside. Within, the large, rotund turkey peered back at her with curious eyes. 

‘C’mon Suzie, you gotta get out of the way.’ 

‘Why?’ asked Suzie. 

‘I gotta get it out so I can kill it,’ explained Greg. Suzie nodded, and moved aside, allowing Greg to undo the makeshift trap that had caught the turkey in its’ grasp. However, he didn’t let it free for long, before simply cutting the neck like he would do for a chicken back home. 

Suzie looked away as he did it. 

When he was done, Greg picked up the turkey, and placed it carefully in the makeshift sack he had crafted from the parachute fabric, and then handed it over to Suzie. 

‘You alright with carrying them? It’s just I can’t, I don’t have enough room in my bag.’ 

‘That’s fine,’ said Suzie, quietly subdued. 

Greg sighed out a breath through his nose, before stopping and turning to place a hand on Suzie’s shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked her. She shook her head. 

‘Nothing,’ she replied, ‘It’s just… different.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘Well, I know I was a bit better off. My Mum wasn’t a farmer, and neither was my Dad. They were both doctors, back in the District. We never really had to kill anything. I didn’t ever have to see the turkey killed before now.’ 

‘But you saw… saw Janine die, a few days ago.’ 

‘That’s what I mean,’ said Suzie, softly. ‘It was so different. I thought Janine’s death would be similar to the turkey’s, but it wasn’t. Janine was alive. I’d talked to her… and stuff… and the turkey… well…’ 

‘I know,’ shrugged Greg. ‘But you have to remember, Suzie. Every death is different. Every single one. It doesn’t matter who or what is dying, or how, they are always going to make you feel differently.’ 

‘How do you know that?’ asked Suzie. 

‘I’ve had to kill things since I was five. Not other people, but animals. I’ve had to kill animals, just to survive. Animals that were trying to kill me, animals that were helping me, even ones I’ve named. When I was younger, my dog got rabies, and we didn’t have the money to cure him, so I had to kill him to be safe. And it felt awful, but I had to do it anyway.’ 

‘I don’t like death very much, I don’t think.’ 

‘I’d be worried if you did,’ said Greg, standing, and nudging Suzie. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ 

‘Okay,’ replied Suzie, following after Greg in the direction of the other trap they had set. ‘I just… when I was with the Careers, Moriarty said that I’d get used to death. He said that after a few days of seeing things die, seeing _people_ die, it would get to be boring.’ 

Greg frowned. ‘He’s wrong.’ 

‘How do you know that?’ 

‘Because I do,’ replied Greg. ‘Strangely enough, I have a brain.’ 

‘That’s not what I mean,’ said Suzie, indignant. 

‘I know,’ Greg shrugged. ‘It’s just… I know he’s wrong because you don’t ever get used to it. No matter how many times you do it, it’s always someone dying. Even if it’s just an animal. That animal probably does have a rich existence, and their own understanding of life that is different from our own.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Suzie, quietly. She was clearly struggling with the concept, so Greg sighed, and tried to find other words to describe it. Before he could open his mouth, though, Suzie spoke. ‘I think… I think Mycroft’s used to killing.’ 

‘I think so too,’ said Greg, before he could think. ‘No… actually… I don’t think he’s used to killing. I think he was trained to be used to killing.’ 

‘You interrupted me,’ said Suzie. ‘I meant to say I think he’s used to killing, but I don’t think he likes it very much. Irene, and Jim, and even Sebastian seem to enjoy killing. They think they’re predators, they think they’re like lions, hunting us, the lambs.’ 

‘You’d be right,’ snorted Greg. ‘But they’re fucking insane - sorry.’ 

‘It’s fine,’ said Suzie. ‘Sebastian said way worse when I was with the Careers. He said some words that I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of.’ 

‘Potty mouth, hey?’ 

‘Yeah,’ giggled Suzie. ‘The kind of thing that would have made my Mum wash my mouth out with soap.’ 

‘Well, I’ll do the same if you’re not careful. I did it once to John when he said a nasty word to Sally - my friend.’ 

‘You don’t even have soap here,’ Suzie shot back, nudging him in the side with her shoulder. Greg snorted.

‘I’m sure I could make to with some tree sap.’ 

‘Don’t you dare, you horrible… horrible person!’ Suzie laughed. 

‘Oh, I’m horrible, am I?’ asked Greg, mocking warning in his tone.

‘Yes, you are!’ Suzie said, outraged. Greg gave her no warning, before leaping after her and chasing her just like he’d chase John if John had said the same thing. 

Letting out a giggle of bubbly laughter, Suzie leapt off into the undergrowth. 

‘Don’t you dare!’ she squealed. 

Greg let out a joking growl, and poured after her, the sword strapped to his back bouncing. Probably a bit dangerous, that, but this was providing such a relief from everything that it was easy to forget the situation they were really in, and pretend Suzie was John, or that she was one of John’s friends, and they were just playing in the glade at the bottom of the hill back home. 

‘Suzie!’ Greg called after her, panting as he tried to keep up with the slighter girl. He knew he could overtake her in a heartbeat, but why ruin the fun?

‘Can’t keep up, old man?’ 

‘Oh, that’s it!’ And Greg leapt after her, catching her and swinging her around. The smaller blonde girl let out a high pitched squeal of delight. 

‘Stop! Stop! Let me down!’ she protested. Greg snickered, but let her settle back by her side, moving through the undergrowth on the more major road at a reasonable pace. 

She was still panting out breaths beside him. 

‘Come on,’ Greg urged her. ‘I see the other trap ahead.’ 

Suzie let out a sound of interest, following where Greg pointed her to see the trap that they had laid. 

‘What is that?’ she asked, as they saw a larger, bulky mass under the trap. 

‘It’s a deer,’ replied Greg, thinking carefully as they moved closer. It appeared to be quite a young deer, with a mottled pattern of small, white dots across its back. 

‘Greg?’ asked Suzie, ‘What are we going to do with it?’ 

Greg looked down at the small deer, tiny, spindly legs twitching against the bindings, and coal-black eyes looking up at them both, questioningly. ‘We can’t take it,’ he decided. ‘It’s too large. The turkey should last us, I think.’ 

‘Okay,’ said Suzie, happily. 

‘But…’ Greg hummed, leaning over to peer at the deer more carefully. ‘I think there’s something wrong with its leg.’ 

Suzie knelt down beside him. ‘I think you’re right,’ she said. ‘There does seem to be something wrong with it. I can fix it, though, I think.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Greg. 

‘Well, when I was younger, my Mum taught me how to make splints to fix animals. I can do it for the deer, too.’ 

‘Alright,’ said Greg. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t have anything.’ 

‘Well, I can use some of the sticks around here to make something, but I do need some sort of soft binding, bandages, or something.’ 

Suddenly, there was a beeping from the sky, just like they had heard yesterday. Suzie and Greg both looked up to see a larger canister coming down through the foliage towards them. 

Suzie leapt up, excitedly. ‘What do you think it is?’ she asked, as Greg rose more slowly, to grasp ahold of the canister that was dropping through the foliage. 

‘I’m not sure,’ he replied, taking the parachute and tucking it into Suzie’s satchel, then going for the canister. 

He opened it to reveal a black, zip-up case that was medium in size. Suzie let out a low gasp, and grasped the case tightly. 

‘What is it?’ Greg asked her. 

‘It’s a med pack,’ she said, ‘Like the ones that were back in the Training Centre. I showed one to you, remember?’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Greg, ‘I remember.’ 

‘Well, I think I can use it to help the deer.’ 

‘That’s good,’ said Greg, ‘Go on, take it. Use what you need, but just wait a moment, cause I’ll come over in a second.’ 

Because when Suzie had taken out the med pack, he’d seen something else underneath. A small slip of white paper, like the one Dimmock had sent him yesterday, was sitting underneath. 

Nervously, Greg took a steeling breath, before reaching in and opening the slip up. The same handwriting greeted him, Dimmock’s sloppy, spiky scrawl. 

It read; _Take care of Suzie. Keep up the good work._

What the hell was that supposed to mean? 

Greg looked up at the sky, rolling his eyes in exasperation. How the hell was he supposed to know what that was supposed to mean? Keep up the good work? Take care of Suzie? 

What good work? And he was obviously going to take care of Suzie. 

The two statements seemed unrelated. 

What message was Dimmock trying to convey here? 

Really, the two most recent parachute hadn’t delivered anything they had desperately needed, they had both delivered things that were satisfying immediate wants. As if Dimmock was using them as an excuse to get more vital information across to Greg. 

It was both strange, and understandable. For everything he knew of Dimmock, he wasn’t surprised that Dimmock was using the canisters for supplies in this way. As an excuse to deliver vital information to him. 

So, that meant that this message had the same vital importance to it as the message yesterday, about running, had. 

Something in the Capitol, then, about his most recent actions, was important. And taking care of Suzie was important. 

Were they linked? 

They had to be. 

The only explanation Greg could think of was that the dynamic between himself and Suzie was appealing a great deal to the audiences in the Capitol. That it was giving him the best chance at survival. 

So, keep it up. 

It seemed a strange way to phrase it, though. 

‘Greg?!’ Suzie called out to him. ‘What are you doing? You look like a statue! And if you’ve become a statue, can I shove a worm up your nose?’ 

‘No,’ replied Greg, unfreezing and looking over at her, plastering a smile on his face. 

‘Well, then come here and help me. I need you to help hold the deer still while I do his leg.’ 

‘Alright,’ said Greg, stepping over to where Suzie was, and then reaching out a tentative hand to stroke over the fur of the deer.

Greg almost gasped at the sensation. The fur was soft under his hand, and slightly wavy, as if somehow, the deer had had its’ fur washed and brushed and then blow dried. It was making a slight whimpering noise, clearly hurt, and vibrating rapidly under his hands. The _thump-thump_ of its pulse could be felt in its flanks. 

Looking over, Greg watched as Suzie took out three rolls of gauze, and just like she had back at the Training Centre, she bound a stick to the deer’s lower leg, holding it still to set the break. 

‘Poor thing,’ she said. ‘Do you think it was our trap that broke its leg?’ 

‘I think it might have been,’ said Greg, quietly. 

‘Well, I’m sorry,’ she said to the deer. Greg smiled. ‘Alright, I’m done. Help him up?’ 

‘Of course,’ replied Greg, letting Suzie get to her feet and step back, before he began to undo the knotted ties that held the poor thing down. 

It wasn’t long before Greg had them untied, but the deer did nothing but lay there. ‘Suzie?’ asked Greg, ‘Is the deer hurt anywhere else?’ 

‘No,’ replied Suzie. ‘Though it might have a bit of difficulty standing at first.’ 

‘Alright,’ said Greg, ‘Well, can you come over here and help me get him or her up?’ 

‘Yes!’ Suzie said, clearly excited at the prospect. She stepped over to him, and knelt down carefully, before placing her hands under the deer’s belly, just like Greg had done. 

‘Okay, lift now,’ Greg instructed, before lifting the deer to it’s feet with Suzie. 

It wobbled back and forth quite a bit, like a clown Greg had once seen stumbling drunkenly about on stilts, but eventually it seemed to get its balance. Letting out a bleat at the both of them, it bounded away, quite happily. 

Greg smiled at Suzie, who was grinning. 

‘That was so cool,’ she announced, her hands going to her hips. 

‘Yeah,’ said Greg. ‘It was, wasn’t it?’ 

She grinned at him, before gesturing. ‘Shouldn’t we get going?’ 

Greg nodded, pushing himself to his feet, and following after her. 

He regarded the younger Tribute beside him as they began to walk away from the spot they had set the trap. She was bouncing along, seemingly quite happy and recovered from the ordeal she had gone through not a few days prior. 

She made it easy to forget, he realised. In all the ease of moving along and just keeping going, she made it easier for him to forget where they were, forget their situation. They were running, really. 

Not literally, of course. But metaphorically, they were running away from the Careers, from the reality that in just a few days, they would likely both be dead, and Mycroft, Irene and Moriarty would be duking it out. All this for the fucking Capitol, who were just too cruel for their own good. They made it difficult to see the truth, to make things seem alright, seem happy. 

‘Suzie,’ said Greg, after a moment, ‘Do you have any siblings? Any sisters, or brothers?’ 

‘No,’ she replied, ‘It’s always just been me and my Mum.’ 

‘Did you want a brother or sister?’ he asked her, honestly curious.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied, equally honestly. ‘I didn’t think I did, for a long time. But I think I’d have wanted an older brother, rather than a younger one. A brother like you, maybe.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘Well, I think I wanted a brother who was older and knew more things. Someone to teach me, would have been nice. To take care of me, too, when my dad died and it was just me and my Mum.’ 

Greg was quiet. 

Suzie piped up, again. ‘What happened to your hair?’ she asked him. ‘It’s silver, like the stars. I’ve never seen that on a younger person, before. My grandpa has hair like yours.’ 

Greg let out a laugh. ‘Long story, that,’ he said. 

‘I have time,’ Suzie shot back. 

‘Well, I was in an accident,’ he replied. ‘When I was very young. It was the accident that killed my father.’ 

This was only a little bit of a lie. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Suzie said. ‘I didn’t mean—‘

‘Nah,’ interrupted Greg. ‘Don’t worry about it. I think it makes me look very beautiful.’ 

‘Yeah,’ giggled Suzie. ‘It does. Like a pretty girl.’ 

Greg laughed, a full-bellied, full throated thing that filled him with more happiness than he’d had reason to experience in the last few days. ‘Mmm. Do you think I’m a pretty lady?’ 

‘Yes,’ Suzie replied, patting his hand, ‘You are a very pretty lady.’ 

Greg shook his head. ‘Unbelievable, you are.’ 

‘I know,’ said Suzie. ‘I’m amazing.’ 

She flicked her hair back, over her shoulder. 

‘Bit full of yourself, too,’ teasing Greg. Suzie shook her head.

‘Nah,’ she disagreed. ‘I’m just acting like those girls at school, the really nasty ones.’ 

Greg nodded, knowledgeably. ‘I know the sorts of girls you mean. They aren’t very nice, are they?’ 

‘Nope,’ said Suzie, wrinkling her nose. ‘They were always really mean to me.’ 

‘Well,’ murmured Greg, ‘You know, they can probably hear you. They might even be watching you.’ 

‘You reckon?’ 

‘Maybe,’ said Greg. ‘I hope John’s watching, sometimes. Sometimes I don’t want him to watch.’ 

‘Same,’ sighed Suzie. ‘I hope my Mum watches me, too. It’s kinda nice, you know? Thinking they might be watching you?’ 

‘It is nice,’ acknowledged Greg. ‘It’s nice to think John might be watching me, but there are times when I hope he doesn’t. Like… the other day. I don’t want him to watch me do bad things. I know that’s kinda selfish, but you know. I don’t want people I love have to watch me do bad things.’ 

‘I get it,’ said Suzie. ‘I don’t want my Mum to watch when I die. And I didn’t want her to watch me getting caught.’

There was a moment of silence. 

‘I remember that, you know,’ said Suzie, sadly. ‘I remember seeing those boys and girls on the tele screen back home, when we would watch the Games in the evening, and I always thought that was never going to be me.’ 

‘It isn’t,’ said Greg. ‘Not for most people. Most people are safe. Guess we’re just super unlucky, hey?’ 

Suzie snorted. ‘Yeah, we’re not really that lucky, are we?’ 

There was yet another moment of silence. This one was more companionable, though. 

‘I think my Mum would have liked you. If we’d known each other better in the District, I mean.’ 

Greg nodded. ‘I think I would have liked your Mum, too.’ 

He only lied a little bit. The truth was that he didn’t really think he would have liked Suzie’s Mum. She’d lied to Suzie. She’d never let Suzie in on the reality of the world. Suzie still saw everything through rose-tinted lenses, and that was obvious from their entire conversation. 

It was a sad fact, that Suzie’s mother had decided to conceal the reality of death from her. Suzie was too sheltered, in Greg’s opinion. She had to know about these things at some point, and then it would have been so hard for her. She had been thrust into this situation with those rose tinted lenses.

And when they had smashed, Suzie’s mother had left him and Dimmock with the responsibility to pick up the pieces. 

‘I think John would have liked you,’ said Greg, nudging Suzie in the side. 

‘I do like John. Even though we’ve never met. You love him lots, and I think that’s enough for me to like him.’ 

‘You have such a high opinion of me,’ said Greg, nudging her again.

‘No, I don’t,’ teased Suzie. ‘You’re stinky.’ 

‘Oh, great, thanks,’ said Greg. ‘Well, it’s not like you smell much better.’ 

‘Greg?’ asked Suzie, ‘Can we go have a bath, or something?’ 

‘Maybe if we come across some sort of water source, we will try and have a bit of a bath, alright?’ 

Greg looked around. He didn’t really recognise where they were. He knew they weren’t anywhere near the Careers, that was a good sign, but he didn’t really like the fact that he didn’t know which part of the Arena they were in. 

‘Suzie,’ he said, ‘I think we should climb a building. See if we can spot where we are.’ 

She nodded her agreement, following him up the nearest building. It wasn’t a far climb, the building was a taller apartment block. 

The top opened onto a rather sparse rooftop, looking out over where they were. It was obvious to see, as soon as they reached the top of the building, that they were in a different area of the Arena than before. Greg could see, when he squinted, that to his right was a more residential area, an overgrown suburb with larger, seperate homes, and choked up gardens. They were in the middle of an area similar to the one he had gone to the first day, a series of terraced residential blocks and apartments. However, off in the distance, a gathering of tall, skeletal skyscrapers lingered. 

‘That’s where I was,’ said Suzie. ‘That way is all flooded.’ 

Greg nodded. ‘I was over there on the first day,’ he said, pointing over to the left. Far off in the distance, he could make out the factories and warehouses he had tried to make for, before being driven back in the other direction by the Gamemakers. It was all he could hope for, that the same wouldn’t happen to them. 

‘Hey Greg?’ asked Suzie, after a moment of staring out over the Arena. ‘Can we stop here for a little while?’ 

Greg smiled. ‘Sure.’ 

Suzie let out a sigh of relief, plopping down on the ground next to Greg. Greg grinned, and sat down next to her, pulling his bag and sword off his back, and setting them down gently next to himself. 

Then, he dug through the bag, fishing out biscuits, and the bottle of water. He handed the bottle to Suzie, who smiled gratefully, before taking a long sip. 

Greg took it back, after a moment, taking a conservative sip of his own, before placing it back in the bag. It was getting lighter - they needed to find a water source and soon. 

‘It’s kinda pretty, don’t you think?’ said Suzie, after a moment. 

‘What?’ asked Greg, confused. 

‘The Arena,’ Suzie replied, rolling her eyes. ‘It’s pretty.’ 

‘You’re right,’ Greg said. ‘It is. In it’s way.’ 

‘It’s kinda strange, don’t you think?’ 

‘What is?’ 

‘This was once a city. Where people used to live, and work, and… be. They were born here, raised here, married here, had families, and died, here. And now it’s been taken back by nature. Soon it’ll be like another forest on the bones of a city. Like it was never here in the first place. That’s kinda beautiful, isn’t it?’ 

‘Deep,’ commented Greg, wryly. ‘But you are right. It is beautiful, in its way. Brutal, too.’ 

‘I’m just sad that we have to be here now. In these circumstances, I mean. I’d rather have come here of my own free will, just as a place to go see, you know?’ 

‘I do,’ agreed Greg, not looking at Suzie for fear of what he’d see there. 

She was growing up too fast. That was in part, his fault, Greg realised. He had been the one to tell her the truth. He had. 

Greg shook his head, to clear his thoughts. ‘So,’ he began, conversationally, ‘did you have a cat or a dog, or anything?’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Suzie, perking up. ‘I had a dog. Her name was Octavia, and she was a sheepdog.’ 

‘That’s nice,’ nodded Greg. ‘You miss her?’ 

‘Of course,’ said Suzie. ‘I just hope that my Mum is taking care of her, is all.’ 

‘I hope John’s taking care of mine, too. Gladstone. He’s a golden retriever puppy.’ 

‘Aww,’ cooed Suzie. ‘That sounds so cute. I wish I could have met him.’ 

‘So do I,’ said Greg, wistfully. ‘I wish you could meet John. And Sally, and Molly, and Maya. All my friends. I would have loved for you to meet them.’ 

‘I would have loved to meet them. They sound great.’ 

‘They are,’ Greg smiled, thinking about memories he had of them. He missed them all, so much, he realised. So much it was a physical pain. But Greg had so much to mourn, so much to grieve, so much to think about, it had gotten a bit lost in the mix, really. It was all just too much. Too much to think about, too much to handle. 

Greg was brave, but he just wasn’t that brave, he didn’t think. He didn’t even know how to begin dealing with it. 

One of the upsides of death, he supposed. Not having to deal with thoughts and emotions and feelings anymore. 

Idly, he wondered what was beyond. He wondered what it was going to be like. Was there a heaven? Was there a hell?

Greg snorted at that thought. He was pretty sure he was in hell, already.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Suzie, looking over at him and smiling, innocently. 

‘Well,’ said Greg, ‘I was just wondering what death’s gonna be like. Whether there’s a heaven and a hell. And then I thought that I reckon we’re both already in hell.’ 

‘What’s your sin?’ asked Suzie, smiling. 

Greg grinned. ‘I reckon,’ he said, ‘It might just be the whole… gay thing.’ 

Suzie let out a laugh. ‘Yeah, I reckon you might be right.’ 

There was a beat of silence. 

‘Do you have someone special? Like… a partner, or someone, back home?’ 

‘No,’ said Greg, looking away. ‘I’ve never really had… a partner. Not like that, anyway.’ 

‘That’s sad,’ said Suzie, softly. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘I’m not,’ Greg snorted. ‘Fewer people to miss me, this way.’ 

‘I guess you’re right,’ she shrugged. ‘I kinda wish I had more time to meet someone special. I had a boyfriend, once. Well… not really. When we were ten he kissed me on the cheek and said he wanted to marry me one day.’ 

‘That’s sweet,’ Greg cooed, shouldering her. She blushed, and looked away. 

‘Shut up,’ she told him. Greg rolled his eyes. 

Again, there was silence. 

‘What should we do, Greg?’ asked Suzie, leaning against his shoulder. 

‘I don’t know,’ Greg replied, ‘I really, really don’t. I don’t think the Gamemakers are going to let us run, for very long. I think… I think today is all we get.’ 

‘Are you sure?’ Suzie asked, tentatively querulous. 

‘Yeah,’ replied Greg, softly. ‘I think… I think this might be it, to be honest.’ 

‘How do you know?’ she asked him, looking up with wide eyes. 

‘There haven’t been any deaths, today.’ 

‘Not yet.’ 

‘No,’ conceded Greg. ‘Not yet. But I think that if there was going to be a death, we’d know. I don’t think the Careers are hunting anyone. I think they’re just… sitting on their heels, today.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘I just feel like… there would have already been a death. I mean, it’s already late afternoon, so the Careers would have begun and ended their hunt long ago. Just like they did with that girl a few days ago.’ 

They both lapsed into silence. 

‘Well, for what it’s worth, this was the best day,’ Suzie said, smiling. ‘It’s been great, Greg. I had fun, with you.’ 

‘I’m glad,’ Greg said. ‘I don’t want it to end, here. I wish… Suzie… I wish we could both go back to the District. I wish you could meet John and maybe we could all have an afternoon together. Just you, me, your Mum and John. We’d have had a great time, I reckon.’ 

‘I reckon you’re right,’ smiled Suzie. ‘I reckon it would have just been the _best.’_

Silence reined. These silences, they weren’t uncomfortable. Suzie and Greg both didn’t seem to feel the need to fill those silences with talking. Greg was just… happy to be with Suzie. Happy to help the little girl, on both of their last few days alive. 

At least he got this. At least… at least he was dying with few regrets. 

Though… that was one of them. Never having a partner. Never loving someone that way. 

He’d been with other guys, sure. He’d been with quite a few… but he’d never been with anyone longer than a few weeks, and that was sad. It was sad he’d never get to marry someone on the fields near their home, with the priest from the local chapel presiding. He’d never get to hold someone’s hand, and get old with someone. 

Maybe… maybe if he and Mycroft had met under different circumstances. 

Mycroft. 

Greg could actually imagine that. He could actually imagine spending long periods of time with Mycroft. Just talking. Letting his fascination with the other Tribute take the reins, and letting the other Tribute’s fascination with him flourish. 

He could see them spending time together, even though they really did come from entirely different places in life. He could see him introducing John to Mycroft, being together in his tiny house on the hill, with the cows. 

Greg looked away, sneering at himself. 

He was clinging to Mycroft. Seeing the other Tribute as something he wasn’t. Sure, there was that potential there, but he didn’t know the other boy. He didn’t know anything about the Career, only that he was good at killing. 

And yet… that didn’t line up with his own experiences with Mycroft. 

Mycroft… was too confusing. He had saved Greg, when he was meant to be killing him. Mycroft had had countless opportunities, but he had just… left it. Had chosen not to. 

Had been… kind. 

Then, of course, there was the whole ordeal with Janine. How both Janine and Suzie had been sent his way, like a gift wrapped up with a bow. 

There was something there. Something Greg didn’t really understand, didn’t know. He didn’t really… couldn’t really comprehend what it was, he knew he couldn’t. It was too hard to think about. 

Mycroft was a mess of complex contradictions woven up in a bundle that was all too attractive. Greg had a fixation on the Career, he knew he did. 

He was magnificent, incredible. The ginger haired Tribute was stunning, fascinating… it made Greg want to lean in, to look closer and closer, and let himself be consumed. 

Greg had figured out early on he was attracted to Mycroft in the most dire of ways. Not just for the way the other Tribute looked, but for the way his mind worked. For the intriguingly unique way Mycroft saw the world, the way he worked. 

It was fucking terrifying, really. 

‘Greg?’ said Suzie, ‘I was just… wondering.’

‘Oh, don’t try too hard, you’ll break something.’ 

‘Greg!’ she yelped, smacking him on the shoulder. ‘I’m being serious. I want… if this is… it. If this is… you know, the end, I want to take something out with me. With us.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘I want to strike a blow against them,’ she replied. ‘I want them to know that we were here, and that we won’t just roll over and show our bellies like cowards.’ 

‘We aren’t cowards, Suzie. You’re brave.’ 

‘I know, and that’s why!’ protested Suzie. ‘That’s why, don’t you see? I want the Careers to know we’re brave. That we’re clever, and we can do things no-one else can.’ 

‘I think I understand,’ said Greg. ‘I know what you mean. You want to strike a blow against them. Make them uncomfortable, struggling, disadvantaged.’ 

‘Yes!’ exclaimed Suzie, sitting up and sweeping her arms. ‘Look at us! They’ve got us on the run, all of them. They’ve got us running scared, and I don’t want to do that. I want to make my Mum proud, make Dimmock proud.’ 

‘Okay…’ said Greg. 

Greg could understand where Suzie was coming from, he could. He got what she wanted to do. 

She wanted the Careers to know who they were and how they stood. She wanted them to see, to show them up, somehow, even if it cost them their lives. 

To be honest, Greg thought there weren’t any better ways to go. That by striking a blow against Irene and Moriarty and Mycroft and Sebastian, it would be like striking a blow against the system. 

Make the Careers feel the way they felt, instead of flush with supplies and the luxury of time. Make them desperate. 

Greg would enjoy that, he thought. Enjoy showing those bastards what he was made of. And maybe, just maybe, it might make John proud. 

If he goes down, Greg thought, he might as well go down in flames. Flames setting fire to the heels of luxury that those Careers rested on. 

‘I don’t know how we’re going to do that, though,’ Greg warned her… before… 

A lightbulb flashed in Greg’s mind. 

‘Suzie,’ he began, his voice trembling a little. ‘You said that they have all their supplies stockpiled?’ 

‘Yeah,’ she nodded. ‘It’s all in a big pile in this old park, right near those drowned skyscrapers you can see. About… that direction.’ 

She pointed over to the left of the skyscrapers Greg could see in the distance. 

‘And it’s all just sitting there? In a big pile?’ 

‘Yes,’ nodded Suzie. ‘They keep it all there in the middle of the park.’ 

‘Well,’ murmured Greg, ‘I think I have an idea.’ 


	20. Smoke

‘Suzie!’ Greg hissed, pushing the younger girl out of bed. ‘We have to get up now. We gotta get started if we want to make this plan work.’ 

‘Alright, alright,’ replied Suzie, getting to her feet. She didn’t complain nearly as much as she had yesterday morning, but Greg wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that. 

There were really only two ways this could go. Either they would succeed, and the Careers would be down one stockpile, or they would fail, and likely both die in the attempt. 

‘I’m up,’ Suzie said, nudging Greg in the side. 

Greg nodded. ‘We should eat,’ he told her, ‘before we go. Gotta get energy, you know.’

‘Okay,’ she consented, as Greg handed her a bit of the roast turkey he had left from the previous night, as well as a bit of slightly stale bread, and a biscuit, as well as a sip from the bottle of water. Greg took the same, and they sat on the roof in the dark coldness before dawn. Everything was silent, aside from the sounds of them eating. 

‘For a last meal,’ Suzie said, ‘It’s not actually half bad.’ 

Greg snorted. ‘Drama queen. We’re not going to die.’ 

‘But we might,’ Suzie replied, raising an eyebrow. 

‘Yeah, everyone’s gonna die one day. Whether it’s at home with your loved ones, or out here in the Arena, one day, we’re all gonna die.’ 

‘I think this is a brave death,’ said Suzie, suddenly serious. ‘I think what we’re doing is right. Maybe we’ll give someone who didn’t have a chance before, a chance.’ 

‘Maybe,’ acknowledged Greg, not wanting to mention the unlikeliness of that occurring. Mycroft was going to win. 

Greg thought, that after himself and Suzie, he did actually _want_ Mycroft to win. He couldn’t think of anyone really better suited to the task of winning the Games. A true case of better it was Mycroft than, say, Moriarty, or Irene. 

Sadistic bastards. 

Greg took another quick sip of the water, and then rolled everything up, back into his pack. 

‘Are you ready?’ he asked Suzie. Suzie nodded, and Greg got to his feet. Holding out a hand, he helped her up. He turned to face the stairs back down the wreck of a building, but before he could, Suzie slammed into his back. 

Her small arms went around his waist, and shocked, Greg froze. 

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, quietly, into his back. ‘I know it’s a bit weird and sentimental and stuff, but… just… I’ve really had a good time with you Greg. And thank you for letting me have this.’ 

‘I don’t need thanks,’ Greg replied, softly. ‘We’re doing this together. And if we go down together… well… I think it would be an honour to die next to you.’ 

Suzie didn’t reply, just released his waist. Greg could feel the tears prickling behind his eyes, but he brutally suppressed it. Instead, he just blinked, and followed her down the stairs. 

The sky was a pale, pale blue, but it was cloudless. That spelt well for their day - the smoke of the fires was going to be seen. 

But there was something in the air. A horrible sense of foreboding. As if there was something coming. Something… not very good. Perhaps it was just him being… paranoid. Couldn’t really be helped though. Not with what was really happening here. 

The nerves were roiling in the pit of Greg’s belly, like they never had before. There were going to be casualties today. Greg could feel it. Whether it was himself and Suzie, or one or more of the Careers, he didn’t know. 

This was going to have consequences. 

But they had to do it. If they didn’t, the Careers would come after them in a day or two anyway, or the Gamemakers would force them together just like they had forced Greg towards the Careers themselves in the first place. 

‘Ugh,’ groaned Suzie, rubbing a bit of sleep from her eyes. ‘We didn’t need to wake up this early.’ 

There was the grouchy morning Suzie Greg had become somewhat familiar with. 

‘Yes we do,’ replied Greg, grinning. ‘Didn’t you ever hear that saying? The early bird gets the worm?’ 

‘Stupid,’ muttered Suzie, just as they exited on the street level. Greg just shook his head. 

‘Come on. The first stop is nearby.’ 

Suzie followed after him, completely quiet. It was both a good thing, and a bad thing. It left him to his own devices, to his own thoughts, which, at the moment, was certainly a bad thing. But Greg did appreciate the silence. 

So much. 

Too much, to be honest. 

There was too much in the air. Too much to think about. It swamped Greg’s mind, made him think of things he simply didn’t want to think about. Things he didn’t want to address. Not in this life, or the next. 

Janine. 

Janine’s lifeless body, just lying there by the pond. A detail from that death Greg had obsessed over was the fact that her blood had trickled out of her wound, and into the water. Contaminating it. Animals might get sick. Then, he’d have even more deaths on his head. 

But he couldn’t have seen a way out of it, could he? She was going to killhim, hunt him down and kill him, and Suzie. It was her, or them. 

It was her, or them. 

Greg had to rationalise it like that. He felt horrible, reducing himself to the reality of two lives are better than one. The aim of the Hunger Games was to survive, to kill your competition. That was what got people to root for you. Entertainment, as horrible as it was. 

Greg shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts from it. 

‘Greg,’ said Suzie, ‘I think here’s good.’ 

The sun was only just touching the horizon, at the moment. Greg nodded. 

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘This should do. Go collect sticks, we should build it as high as we can.’ 

‘Aye aye, sir,’ saluted Suzie, mockingly. Greg laughed, lowly, and watched her skip off into the underbrush, before he began to collect a bit of kindling together. 

Soon, they had built up a reasonably-sized pyre, reaching as high as the lower branches on nearby trees, sprouting up from under the asphalt. Suzie nodded, in contentment, at what she saw, before she followed him out of the spot they had chosen. 

‘Greg,’ Suzie said, after a moment, tugging on his hand. 

‘Yeah?’ Greg turned, raising an eyebrow. She smiled. 

‘Well, it’s just… you really remind me of the Silver Knight. You do. Cause my Mum read me the stories when I was a little girl, too.’ 

Greg hummed, noncommittally. 

‘I know you think it’s stupid,’ Suzie sighed, ‘and I know you think it’s just Capitol people making it up, but I think it’s kinda cool. I wish I had a nickname like that.’ 

‘I’m sure you do.’ 

‘Really?’ Suzie turned to look at him, her eyes wide. Greg grinned. 

‘Yep,’ he nodded, knowledgeably. ‘I reckon though it’s something like Stinky. Or Drama Queen. Or maybe Stinky Times Two.’ 

Immediately, Greg leapt away from her, but it wasn’t far enough. Suzie swung out her hand, and it landed, with a smack, on Greg’s hip. Greg yelped. 

‘Greg!’ Suzie whined. ‘That’s not nice. I’m not stinky.’ 

‘No,’ Greg smiled, softly. ‘You’re not. And I reckon the Capitol calls you something sweet. Like… maybe you’re the princess to my Knight.’ 

‘As long as I don’t have to kiss you. Cause out of the two of us, you’re the stinky one.’ 

‘I would never ask that of you,’ Greg said, raising a hand. ‘Swear on my mother’s life… well… my mother’s death.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Suzie, the wind going out of her sails. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.’ 

Greg cursed himself, inwardly. He was on edge, he knew it. That joke was just a bit too black. Even for the situation they were in. 

‘No,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s a joke.’ 

‘Okay,’ Suzie nodded. ‘I think I get it.’ 

They both lapsed into silence. However… it was the kind of silence that did make Greg uncomfortable. The kind of silence that weighed heavy on him. 

He felt guilty. He hadn’t meant to deflate Suzie like that… everything just felt bleak, today. Most things felt bleak, most of the time. But this day… just felt bleaker than the others. 

He could mourn, today. Mourn all the lost time, all the lost opportunities, not just for himself, but for Suzie, as well. All those things she would miss out on and never realise that she missed.

Like meeting someone she could love, or… or many things. Growing old. 

It wasn’t fair. 

Greg said as much; ‘This isn’t fair, you know.’ 

‘I know,’ replied Suzie, so softly Greg didn’t think he’d heard her say anything, at first. ‘It isn’t fair. I want to go home. In a fair world… I think maybe we could go home. All of us. Even the ones who died on the first day. We could all go home and we’d all be with our families.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg nodded. 

They had come across the second spot to set a fire. It wasn’t too far from the first spot. Not so far that Suzie would tire herself out overly getting to it. It had only been a half an hour walk, and about ten minutes, running. Greg could only hope Suzie could hold out. 

Now, however, they were closer to the place Suzie knew the Careers were, right on the junction turning back onto a road that Greg had seen led straight back to the Clock Tower. It was a good spot to set up the fire, but they were creeping ever closer and closer. 

Greg didn’t like that, not really. 

Getting closer to the people who were trying to hunt and kill him was never a good thing. Suzie had told him things, too, about Moriarty and Irene. More things, that were scary and dangerous and traumatic. Things Suzie should have never had to know, experience. Even see. 

This was just… 

‘Alright, same as before, you go grab the sticks. I’ll grab from over there, looks like there’s quite a collection going.’ 

Suzie nodded, sharply, and left the clearing. Greg almost called her back - not wanting the smaller blonde girl out of his sight today, not even for a second. 

It was still quite early. So early that the Capitol citizens probably wouldn’t be awake yet, so the Gamemakers wouldn’t really be demanding live action to occur. But there was that anticipation in the air. 

This was fine. 

Quickly enough, they had built up yet another pyre, one that looked like it was going to burn quite well. There was only one more left to set up, and this time, on the walk in that direction, Suzie didn’t try to force any conversation, and Greg didn’t try to inject any brevity. 

What they were doing was dangerous. It might spell the end of them both. But they were going to try. That, in the end, was all that really mattered. 

Going down in flames, and all that?

Greg would still have much preferred to go down at an old age, his loved ones by his side. But it didn’t seem like he would have much of a chance of that happening whatsoever. 

This walk gave him thought. It gave him room to think in abundance, with nothing but the company of his own mind, just like it had been in the first few days. Before Suzie had come along. 

Now, it was just him again. 

Greg hated it. He loved other people with a fierce passion. He loved being around other people, in the heart of a crowd where the emotions ran high. Being trapped in his own mind was the worst kind of torture. 

‘Okay,’ he said, quietly, when he thought they had reached a good spot. ‘I think here’s fine.’ 

‘Are you sure?’ asked Suzie. ‘Maybe we should get closer.’ 

‘No,’ Greg said, shaking his head. ‘That’s not a good idea. I don’t want you any closer than you have to be.’ 

‘Greg,’ Suzie sighed. ‘You’re gonna have to go in there, you know.’ 

‘Yeah, but I just want… I don’t know.’ Greg sighed, and slumped to the ground, putting his head in his hands. ‘You’re already going to have the likes of Irene and Sebastian, and Moriarty, not to mention Mycroft going after you. They’re going to be hunting you like they hunted down a whole bunch of the other Tributes.’ 

‘I know,’ shrugged Suzie. ‘I guess I understand where you’re coming from.’ 

‘So here?’ 

‘Here’s fine,’ Suzie nodded. ‘I’ll go get sticks.’ 

Then, it was a simple matter of setting up just one, final pyre. Greg could only hope that it was going to be enough. It was going to have to be. 

‘Alright,’ said Greg, ‘That’s it, I think. I guess… we should just wait until the sun’s a bit higher in the sky, then.’ 

‘Yeah,’ nodded Suzie, in agreement. ‘Though… can we go and wait inside that building, over there? It’s just…’ 

Greg nodded. She didn’t need to go on. Greg feel exposed here, too. They were both far too close to where it had all started, back at the goddamn Clock Tower. 

They were close enough to the flooded skyscrapers that Greg could hear the sound of water, rushing. He hadn’t asked Suzie about that, actually. 

When they situated themselves on the bottom floor of a nearby building, he asked. ‘When you were over at the flooded skyscrapers, was there water rushing?’ 

Suzie nodded. 

‘Yeah. When we came, there had been a big rain, and from what I could tell, it all catches on top of the skyscrapers. Leads to them looking a bit like waterfalls, all the water falling from the top.’ 

‘That’s kinda cool,’ commented Greg. ‘I think… I think I’d like to see that.’ 

‘It was nice,’ replied Suzie, shortly. ‘But I couldn’t get out to it.’ 

‘Can you swim?’ 

‘No,’ Suzie looked away. ‘My Mum never taught me. She never let me anywhere near the ocean.’ 

‘Why not? The ocean isn’t really that scary. A few months ago, during summer, my friends and I all went, with John, of course. It was wonderful.’ 

‘That’s nice,’ smiled Suzie, wistfully. ‘I think I would have liked to go to the ocean.’ 

‘Well, if we survive this, then I’ll take you. We can go all the way over to the flooded skyscrapers, and maybe, I’ll show you how to swim. The Careers once we’re done will need a few days to collect their wits about them, I reckon. So we’ll take a day and go out there, alright?’ 

‘You really think that’ll happen?’ asked Suzie, softly, hope in her voice. ‘You really think we might have another day like yesterday?’ 

Greg took a deep breath. He didn’t think they would. But he had already ruined one fantasy for Suzie. Maybe… maybe this would give her hope. 

He nodded. 

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we will.’ 

‘Do you really mean that?’ asked Suzie, peering closely at Greg’s face. 

‘God, Suzie,’ he whispered, ‘I really, really do.’ 

‘Okay,’ Suzie nodded, happily. ‘I trust you.’ 

‘I trust you, too.’ 

‘Oh, don’t get all sappy on me,’ she complained. ‘It’s gross.’ 

‘Great,’ Greg shot back. ‘Thanks, mate.’ 

Suzie just rolled her eyes, and nudged Greg’s shoulder. Slowly, they lapsed into silence, just waiting out the day a little. 

‘Told you,’ Suzie grumped. ‘We didn’t need to get up that early.’ 

Greg sighed, and shook his head. ‘Lazy.’ 

Suzie nudged him in the shoulder, again, laughing. ‘You’re a horrible person, Greg Lestrade. You aren’t the Silver Knight.’ 

‘Am too.’ 

‘Are not.’ 

‘Am too.’ 

‘Are not.’ And Greg couldn’t bear to keep arguing with her, so he grabbed the smaller Tribute, and squeezed her tightly, in the guise of teasing. She wriggled and fought, but not that hard, and Greg let out a low laugh. 

She was giggling as well, at the feeling, and Greg relished it. Because if he was going to die today, he wouldn’t get this again. Not from John, not from Suzie… Not from anyone. 

‘Greg?’ asked Suzie, quietly. Greg looked over at her. ‘What do you regret the most?’ 

‘What do you mean?’ Greg asked, a little confused. 

‘Well, I really regret that I didn’t get to become a doctor, like my Mum. It’s something I’ve wanted since I was little. I wanted to be a doctor just like my Mum and my Dad. Make them proud.’

‘You do make them proud,’ said Greg. ‘But yeah. I get what you mean. I think… I think I regret not giving John more of the life he deserved.’ 

‘You gave him a lot, didn’t you?’ 

‘I gave him as much as I could, I suppose,’ Greg shrugged. ‘But he only had me. He doesn’t have any other parents, or brothers, or sisters. It was just him and me, for a really long time. And now…’ Gre paused. He didn’t know how to phrase it. So he just shrugged, ‘Now.’ 

Suzie hummed her understanding. 

‘I think I get it,’ she said. 

‘I also regret… I think… I regret… I don’t know.’ Greg had no idea how to phrase some of his deepest desires. He had no idea how to phrase what he really wanted. Because what he really wanted was time. More time, more choices, more people. 

He wanted more time to make friends and family and lovers. 

And maybe, if they didn’t live in the world they lived in, he would have liked to know Mycroft better. Would have liked to sit down with the other boy, and just talk. 

But that wasn’t going to happen, was it?

Sighing, Greg looked down at his hands. 

***

Soon, the sun had risen sufficiently on the horizon for their plan to work. It was still quite early, around mid-morning, but late enough. There would be people watching. Capitol people. 

Wasn’t that all Dimmock wanted, in the end? More people to watch them?

They were both silent. Greg helped Suzie to her feet, and then handed her the flint and steel. Rucking his bag back up, he placed a gentle hand on Suzie’s shoulder, as they stood outside the building, next to the third pyre. 

‘Wait,’ said Greg. ‘Just until I turn that corner there. Then light the pyre.’ 

Suzie nodded. ‘I know. We’ve been through this a million times, Greg. Nothing’s gonna go wrong.’ 

‘You have to run, alright?’ Greg told her, fiercely. ‘You have to run as fast as you can, you have to get to that next pyre and light it and then get away. As fast as you possibly can.’ 

‘I know,’ Suzie repeated. 

‘Cause Suzie, they’re gonna be on your heels. I know this is gonna be hard, but they’re gonna be on your heels. The whole slobbering pack of them.’ 

‘I know!’ Suzie shot back, raising a hand to grip where Greg’s was holding her shoulder. ‘I’ll be fine. We can do this. Down in flames, remember?’ 

She had changed so much. So fucking much. None of this was fair. She shouldn’t have to go through this. She shouldn’t have to be as mature as she is right now. She’s twelve. She should be back home, going to school and talking to boys and… and just being a fucking _twelve year old girl._ But that wasn’t going to happen because the Capitol had stripped them of it. Had stripped them both of all their chances… and Greg was angry. 

He knew he was shaking. 

‘Greg,’ said Suzie, softly, after a moment. ‘This is going to be fine. We’re going to be fine, alright?’

‘I know,’ whispered Greg. ‘We’re going to be fine.’ 

Shaking his head, Greg cleared his mind of all thoughts aside from the task they had ahead of them. He had to stay focused. 

He let an easy grin melt onto his face. ‘See you later, alright?’ 

‘Alright,’ nodded Suzie. She gave Greg a quick hug, before tapping him on his back. ‘Go get them, yeah?’ 

‘Yep.’ 

And with that, Greg pulled his pack up onto his back as far as he could, and then set off at a light jog. He knew the way already. Suzie had told him exactly where he needed to go. 

It didn’t change the fact that he was fucking _terrified._ He was. He was so scared that this was going to explode in his face. 

But there was a sword on his back, bound there by twine and vines, and a purpose in his mind. This was going to have to do, for now. 

Just around the corner, and behind him, he hoped that Suzie had begun to light the fire. She wasn’t as reliably good at it as she should be, so it would likely take her a little while to get it, but once she did, she had to run. Run as fast as she could. 

Greg could only hope she could run fast enough, before the Careers caught up to her. He didn’t know if she’d be able to do it. 

Taking a deep breath of exhaustion, Greg rounded yet another corner, and there it was. Up ahead was the Clock Tower. 

Greg hadn’t seen it since the first day. He’d been deliberately avoiding it, really. But it was still there, still tall. Half of the thing was illuminated by the sunlight, reflecting off the bricks and paint that made it up. The clock face showed that it was about quarter to ten in the morning, the long, skinny, old-fashioned points of the hands on the clock glinting. The roof of the tower was pyramidal in shape, but there was a rim around it, with a viewing deck. Greg considered the possibility that someone could climb up there. 

That, of course, set off his paranoia. There could be someone up there, a Career, standing up the top with a weapon at the ready, to strike him down, and he would never know it. 

Greg had to hurry. 

The area around the Clock Tower was entirely empty, an open, exposed space. The platforms from which they had all started were all still standing there, an empty idol to their beginnings. 

Passing under the Clock Tower, Greg looked over the ground for anything to help him. Nothing, of course. It had been picked clean like the carcass of a cow around a pack of vultures. 

Vultures. 

Good analogy, that. 

Hastily jogging past, out of the square, Greg headed down the road opposite. Suzie had told him that along this road, if he just kept jogging for about five minutes, he’d come to a gated park. The Careers and their stock pile were in there. 

The sound of rushing water was even louder over here, the flooded skyscrapers not too far off. 

Then, Greg saw the gates. They were completely choked up with leaves and vines and weeds, not to mention the moss, but Greg was certain he could scale the fence. 

Time to test that theory. 

Rolling his shoulders, Greg leapt at the fences, pulling himself up, and then over the top. Quickly ducking back down the other side, he landed with a jarring thud on the grass below. His knee jolted, and he had to suppress a low groan of pain. 

This was fine. 

Standing with a tiny whimper of pain, Greg began to creep through the underbrush. 

Here, in this park, it was a bit like being out in the forest. The growth was so thick and dense that it was like honestly traipsing through the woods. Small trees caught his trousers, and he crushed plants under his feet. 

Underneath all the wild growth, it did seem like there was once a finely manicured lawn where he was walking, but no longer. 

Suzie had said that their stockpile was right in the middle of the park, next to a small lake. If Greg concentrated, he could hear the slight rushing of water, even closer than the faint rumbling from by the flooded skyscrapers. 

He followed the sound, to find that it led to a tiny stream, running right through the middle of the forest. Smiling, Greg followed the direction of the current. It had to lead somewhere, right? Probably the lake, as it led him deeper and deeper into the park. 

It wasn’t long before he came across the edge of the lake, but he stopped short before he exited the tree line. 

He had come out on the opposite side of the lake to where the Careers had left their stockpile. It was immediately obvious, a tall tower taller than even the pyres he and Suzie had made early that morning. On it appeared to be all the food and supplies from the Cornucopia under the Clock Tower. 

Beside it, even closer to the lake, was set up what looked like some sort of giant tent type thing. Propped up on four tall stakes, a tarpaulin larger than the one he had himself stuffed into his bag covered a sizeable area in shade. Beds were set up underneath it, on comfortable mats, the large sleeping bags even fluffier and fuller than his own. 

And, unfortunately, the Careers were still here. Crowded around under the tarpaulin, Moriarty sat next to Sebastian, leaning heavily against the muscular blond. 

Sebastian himself, up closer, had a far more pig-like appearance than Greg had expected. He had a flat nose that looked as if it had been broken on more than one occasion, as well as small, beady eyes that darted here and there. 

Moriarty was reclining against Sebastian as if he were some sort of inanimate object. A chair, perhaps. His black, greasy hair reflected the light, nastily, and he looked perfectly at ease, as if it were just a few of his friends by the lake on holiday. 

Next to Moriarty sat Irene, leaning back on her hands and laughing at something Moriarty had clearly just said. 

And then, of course, there was Mycroft. 

Unlike the other three, Mycroft had seated himself on a medium-sized crate. His hands were working over the rapier he held in his hand, meticulously cleaning it, and his slate eyes were focused on the task entirely. Ginger hair was striking in the light, but Mycroft also seemed to have bags under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept well. 

Mycroft’s long limbs were neatly folded, and he looked almost regal, even though he was cleaning blood off a rapier while sitting on a crate in ratty clothing. Greg guessed that he just always had that air about him. 

Fascinated, Greg was about to step even closer, but to do so, he would have to leave the tree line. He only just restrained himself. 

To distract himself, Greg looked over, back to where he had come from, for some sight of Suzie’s fires. 

There. 

Just hovering over the tops of the trees, between two taller buildings in the distance, Greg could see the smoke, rising towards the sky. It curled up there, like breath on a cold morning, reaching towards the heavens. 

There was a yell, and it startled Greg. Sharply, he looked back to where the Careers were relaxing, and saw that Mycroft had gotten to his feet, and was pointing out at where the smoke was rising in the morning sky. The rapier was a lick of steel at his side as he swung to his feet. 

With a single swipe of his hand, Mycroft conveyed who was going to follow him. Irene and Moriarty both stood, falling into line behind Mycroft, as the three Careers darted off in the direction of the smoke. Greg sent his thoughts out to Suzie, hoping beyond hope that she was off, after the next pyre already, and that she hadn’t run into any trouble. It shouldn’t take too long. 

The Careers had all darted off into the undergrowth, all except for one. 

Sebastian Moran sat up, more watchful now, his hand on the axe Greg hadn’t noticed before at his side. The large blond got to his feet, after a moment, and began to pace back and forth. 

Waiting a few moments, counted by the pacing of Sebastian, Greg finally decided it was his turn to move. His turn to do something. 

Creeping around the side of the lake, sticking to the tree line, Greg made his quiet way to a position closer to where the pile of supplies were located. Up close, it was even larger than it had appeared from the other side of the lake. Stacked high with food and crates of goods that Greg didn’t recognise, it towered over him, partially blocking his view of the lake. 

Sebastian was still pacing back and forth, closer to the pile, then walking away again. He looked like a caged tiger. 

Greg had noticed that before. 

Looking over at the pile, Greg realised they didn’t really have a solid plan. The plan had been distract the Careers, then destroy the pile of supplies. 

How was he going to do it?

Frantically, Greg looked around. There wasn’t really anything around that could help him, just trees and sticks and grass and the things in his bag; a sleeping bag, some string, some food, some paper…

Nothing. 

Shit. 

Fuck. Buggering fuck. 

He’d made a mistake. 

Alright. Time to show his mettle. He had to come up with something.

And he did. Greg, in a moment of complete and utter brilliance, looked at the pile. The pyre. 

Because that was exactly what it looked like. It looked like a pyre. 

This was going to be good. 

Frantically, Greg turned, and grabbed the first sticks he could find, before snatching his bag and his sword from his back, and tossing them on the floor. Tearing through his bag, as quietly as he could, he found the paper and the string, and tore the paper up into tiny bits to act as kindling. 

Hiding his actions behind a large tree, Greg tied the string around a rather bendy bit of branch he found, he made a bow just like his father had taught him, and then took up another, more pointy bit to press into the larger log he had. 

Then, he began to rub. 

It was a slow process, but eventually, some coal flared up, blackened and charred, and emitting a tiny bit of smoke. 

Greg reached down, and quickly took up the bit of log, blowing on it in an effort to kindle the coals into more of a flame. They flared up once more, and as fast as he could, Greg dropped the bits of torn paper on top, watching in glee as it flared up into a fire for the final time. 

He almost leapt into the air with victory. 

Now, all he had to do was use the fire to set off the pile of supplies. Easier said than done. 

Continuing his sudden, and unexpected moment of brilliance from before, Greg found a larger, thicker stick that would do as a torch of sorts. Then, taking up a bit of the soft, flammable parachute material, he tied it around the top of the torch with a bit of string, then set it alight. 

It flared up brilliantly, and started smoking. 

He only had a little while before it was going to go out, so he had to set off the fire _now._

It was no simple matter to crawl closer, after stamping out the fire on the ground, towards the pile, with the lit-up torch clenched in his right hand, but he managed to be just inside the tree line, where Sebastian wouldn’t spot him. The pile was about two metres away, too far to reach, but not too far to throw. 

Drawing his arm back as if the torch were some sort of flaming knife, Greg threw it. It arced through the air to land neatly at the base of the pile, where detritus had built up - dead leaves and the like - over the top of the wooden crates. 

It flickered there, and Greg watched it frantically, thinking it wasn’t going to take. 

He didn’t need to worry. After just a few moments, the fire leapt greedily through the leaves and onto the crates, and then it really flared up, leaping towards the top of the pile with a vengeance. Greg grinned, as Sebastian let out a loud yelp of surprise when he turned around and saw the pile alight.

It was now burning quite healthily, and getting rather hot. Greg could feel the heat building up, the fire growing steadily larger and larger. Higher and higher the flames leapt, as Sebastian tried frantically to run for the lake, and fetch water to dump over the pyre, but realised soon that it wasn’t enough. 

Greg could feel the victory already sweeping through his veins, and he plucked his pack off the ground, along with his sword, and took off through the undergrowth, not a care for silence any longer. 

Leaping through the undergrowth, Greg could feel the buildup of adrenaline in his legs, enough to keep him moving despite his exhaustion. It made his heart pound faster, and his blood pump through his veins much quicker. 

However. 

Suddenly, there was a great _boom_ , just before a wave of heat thundered across his back. It threw him forward, smacking him into a tree, and causing him to sink to the ground, dazed. 

Turning, faint in the head, Greg saw through the trees that what had been simply a pile of burning supplies was no longer just a pyre. Now it was a column of flame and sparks and smoke. 

His vision was multiplying, slightly hazy and black around the edges, but he could see the brightness fading, and the smoke beginning to dissipate. 

What the fuck was that? Why the fuck had that happened?

He was fairly certain he hadn’t made the supplies explode, so what the fuck?!

His head spinning, all Greg knew was that he had to get out of here. He hadn’t seen Sebastian yet, and…

_Boom._

Off went the cannon. 

Immediately, Greg’s first thought was of Suzie, but that was impossible. It had to be. 

Thinking, Greg suddenly realised. _Sebastian._ It must have been. Standing that close to the pyre, to the explosion, he wouldn’t have had a chance. The pile was entirely gone, and so was the decent three metre circle around the pile. Which Sebastian had been standing in, in an attempt to put out the fire. 

Letting out a sigh of relief, Greg took up his sword. 

He still needed to find Suzie. 

However, something bade Greg to look up. To look over at the nearest building, which could be seen outside the skyline. 

Greg let out a sudden exhalation at the sight of Mycroft. From this distance, he couldn’t quite make out the expression on the Career’s face, but he was by himself. His ginger hair was a shock of red against the blue sky, and that regal frame Greg had lusted over was lax. His posture was simple, as he gazed down at Greg. 

He was amused. Greg could tell, just from the way he held himself, that Mycroft was amused. And not a tiny bit impressed. 

As he watched, Mycroft raised his rapier, in a salute to Greg. 

It prompted a smile from Greg, and a wave of his own sword in return. Another mysterious interaction to add to the list. 

Greg had accepted them, at this point. Accepted the fact that Mycroft and he had some sort of weird alliance, even though they should be on opposite sides. Some sort of truce, or understanding, or _something._ Who the hell knows? 

But just then, Greg smiled. 

Then, Mycroft pointed his rapier over in the direction Greg had been hurrying. 

He had been calm, until Mycroft pointed. It reminded him. Suzie. 

Greg looked over at where the three pillars of smoke should be, arcing up towards the sun. 

There were only two. 

Now, Greg couldn’t help himself. 

_‘SUZIE!’_


	21. Fight

Greg was running before he could even realise he was off, swinging around trees and sliding between the bushes. Soon enough, he was at the edge of the fenced off park, and he vaulted over the top, landing on the mossy pavement beyond. 

His knee jarred again, but he didn’t notice. 

There were only two fires lit. Only two pyres of smoke, reaching for the sky. By now, Suzie should have lit up all three of the pyres. Therefore, there must be something wrong. Greg could only hope that the other two Careers hadn’t tracked Suzie down. 

Mycroft had been alone on that rooftop. Had raised his rapier in a sort of salute, as if he was approving of Greg’s actions. 

Greg didn’t have the time or energy to contemplate what the hell that was supposed to mean. All he could think about right now was Suzie.

He tore past the trees, and then out into the open space of the square, devoid of life or vegetation. Crossing the square, he passed right underneath the Clock Tower, just as it ticked past ten thirty in the morning. 

Then, down the opposing road, darting past the tree he had hid in the first day. He was out of breath, his feet heavy and his knees aching, but he had to press on. Sweat was in his eyes, making them sting, and his body screamed out in process, but Greg kept running. 

He wasn’t going fast enough. He could tell. 

A bit farther, past the first pyre they made. Greg tried to stay as far from it as he could, in case there was a Career there, but it didn’t seem like there was. Faster Greg ran, and then he got past the second pyre. 

If he could remember rightly, the third one was just up ahead. 

He was loud. He knew he was loud. He had to be attracting the attention of everything and everyone in the area. Everyone would know he was here, crashing through the undergrowth. 

Suddenly, a low-hanging tree branch appeared out of nowhere, and smacked Greg straight across the face. It was like a whip, striking Greg’s cheeks and over his lips, making him cry out in pain. 

He fell to the asphalt with a crash and almost wet sounding thump. Warm wetness dribbled down his face, and he realised he was bleeding from his upper forehead. Everything went hazy for a moment, but Greg pushed on. 

He pushed himself back up to his feet, even though it felt like he was Atlas pushing up the sky. His legs were burning, his breaths were short, and his lungs were on fire. His heart was racing so fast that Greg was certain it must burst out of his chest in just a moment. 

But the adrenaline masked that, along with the pain from the branch strike. 

Greg panted, letting himself rest against the tree for just a moment, before taking off again. His bag was a weight on his back, the sword in his right hand a lick of silver, swishing dangerously close to his side. 

‘Suzie!’ Greg called out, into the trees. 

She must be around here somewhere, trapped between the second pyre and the third. She had to be. 

There was no response, so Greg continued through the trees. 

‘Suzie! Suzie, if you’re out here, call me! I need you to call me! I can’t find you!’ 

Then, finally, the call came. ‘Greg!’ screamed Suzie, panic in her soft, but familiar voice. 

Greg tore through the trees in the direction of her voice, pushing past a few branches and coming across a horrifying sight. Trapped under a large net, clearly set up by one of the other Tributes, was the younger blonde girl, red marks from the harsh material on her face. 

She was struggling against the netting, her small hands attempting to push it away, to no avail. It seemed to be weighted down, pinned by falling metal pikes. 

‘Suzie, oh God,’ Greg hissed, softly, leaping towards her and fumbling for the net. ‘Are you alright? Are you hurt?’ 

‘I think I’ve cut my leg,’ she replied, her voice high pitched and injected with not an inconsiderable amount of panic. ‘Where are the Careers?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ Greg replied, another thing that sent his paranoia and nerves into overdrive. ‘I saw Mycroft on my way here, he didn’t do anything but… well… I don’t really know what he did… and I haven’t seen Irene and Moriarty since they left the park.’ 

‘I heard someone following me, a little while back,’ Suzie warned him, her voice still injected with panic. ‘I don’t know who it was.’ 

‘Neither do I,’ replied Greg. ‘And there’s still one other Tribute unaccounted for.’ 

Reaching for the knife he had stowed in his bag, Greg fell upon the netting, sawing away at the rough rope material. It was a bit of working, taking some elbow grease, but eventually, Greg managed to slice through. 

Immediately, he reached a hand into the netting, and pulled at Suzie, tugging her out of the mess of ropes and dirt and twigs. 

Her hair was loose and knotted, dirt and various plant materials and things tangled into it. Her leg was also not good, a large cut running up the side, and her trousers torn apart at the seams. 

‘Jesus,’ hissed Greg, reaching out a hand and trying to stem the flow of blood from the cut. ‘We need to do something about that.’ 

‘Greg,’ Suzie whispered, the relief evident in her voice. It prompted Greg to look up at her, his eyes wide. 

Her eyes were soft, and scared, and she had never looked younger. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears, and her hands were shaking. 

‘Oh, love,’ Greg whispered, holding out his arms just as he would have had it been John. ‘It’s alright.’ 

Suzie sniffled into his shoulder, clutching Greg as tight as she possibly could. Greg held her back, hugging her to him as if he could hold her there forever. Hide her from the brutal reality of these fucking Games. But that just wasn’t going to be the case, was it?

Greg stroked a hand over her hair. ‘You’re alright, Suzie. We’re alright, see? And we did it! I set fire to their stockpile, and then it blew up!’

Suzie smiled into his shoulder. 

‘We did it,’ she nodded, contented. ‘I can’t believe it. We actually did it.’ 

‘Yes,’ nodded Greg. ‘We did. We gotta get up, though, or else they’re gonna find us.’ 

‘Just… just a moment,’ whispered Suzie. ‘I just…’ 

‘I know,’ replied Greg, rubbing a soothing hand over her small back. ‘I know.’ 

They sat there for a moment longer, Greg stroking her back, and listening to her panicked breaths calm. Her cut was still bleeding through his fingers, so he needed to care for that, but right now, everything was alright. Everything was alright with the world, just for a little. 

They had struck an enormous blow against the Careers. See them try to recover now. 

Suzie raised her head from Greg’s shoulder just a moment later, and stiffened immediately, letting out a low gasp. 

She tapped Greg on the shoulder, and Greg immediately tensed, and then turned, letting go of Suzie to come to his feet next to her, sweeping up his sword in the same motion. 

On the other side of the clearing where their trap was, stood Irene. Her smile was casually cruel, and the axe in her hand swung lazily. 

Greg reached out his left hand and gripped Suzie’s, pushing her slightly behind him. Everything that had been in his mind cleared at the thought of a battle. 

‘Well, isn’t this _sweet,’_ sang Irene, her every motion sickening. ‘You haven’t gotten away though, have you?’ 

Greg wasn’t sure how to reply, as Irene slowly stalked forwards, the axe in her hand flicking back and forth, and her other hand holding a long, steel dagger with a nasty jagged edge. 

‘The Silver Knight. In the flesh,’ she whispered, almost orgasmically. ‘Oh, Mycroft will be _so_ happy to see you, the darling. He tried to hide his favour… oh yes, he did… but not from me! I see _everything.’_

She took another step forwards, and Greg quickly stepped backwards, with Suzie still pressed behind him. Raising his sword, he held it up in a motion of bravado he didn’t really feel. 

‘I’m warning you, Irene,’ Greg hissed, ‘Don’t come any closer.’ 

‘Oh, darling, _darling,_ you can’t possibly stop me. Aren’t you just so cute! You think you can stop me. Stop _me!’_

Greg just lowered his brow, focusing on Irene carefully. 

‘That pretty little boy of yours, back home… oh, he is simply _exquisite,_ isn’t he? John, that’s his name, isn’t it? Yes… I believe it is. And… do you…’ 

Irene’s face was wide in ecstasy, grinning sadistically at Greg. Greg could feel rage boiling in the pit of his stomach. ‘Leave John out of this,’ he hissed. 

Irene beamed, wider. ‘Oh, darling, I don’t think I will. You are just too adorable, I think. It’s so cute to think you believe you can actually bring me down. You wave your little sword, as if you can do anything to me. Perhaps… perhaps when I win, I’ll go find that little boy of yours. I bet he’ll _scream_ ever so loudly when—‘ 

‘Shut up!’ roared Greg, raising his sword and charging forwards, prepared to run Irene through. But before he could, Irene’s hand was a blur of skin and steel, as she threw the dagger. 

Greg saw his life flash before his eyes. The dagger sailed, as if in slow-motion, right through the air, spinning past him hilt over blade. 

It span past him. Past him. 

Because Irene hadn’t aimed for him, not at all. 

Greg pulled up short, the energy going out of his limbs, as he followed the path of the dagger past him, and right at Suzie. And he couldn’t do anything, as it impacted in her sternum, piercing right through and into her body. 

Fatal. 

Greg knew it was fatal. 

It was the same thing he’d done to Janine. 

Fuck. 

Greg immediately ran to Suzie, catching her as she fell backwards, and bearing her softly down to the ground. He could feel the tears already collecting in his eyes, as her own shocked ones looked up at him. 

‘No, no, no, no no no no…’ Greg whispered. ‘No. You’re gonna be fine, Suzie, I promise…’ 

Suzie didn’t reply, just weakly gripped Greg’s hand. She shook her head. Her eyes were wide, and were looking past Greg. Greg knew Irene’s shadow was falling over him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Suzie. Couldn’t take his eyes off the lifeblood that was running from her chest, now. 

It was only at the last second that he tried to scramble for his sword, to see through the tears. He already knew he wasn’t going to make it. 

What was the point in fighting it, anyway? He was going to have to die at some point? Why not now, next to Suzie?

Irene raised her axe, prepared to plunge it into Greg, who had given up fighting below her. 

She bore down, and there was a sudden, and immediate clash of steel, right behind Greg’s back. 

Already bracing for impact, the clash of steel shocked Greg, and made him turn. What he saw was perhaps the most surprising thing he’d seen the entire Games. Mycroft Holmes, in all his regal glory, was standing in front of Irene, between the other Career and Greg, his rapier casually shining by his side. 

Irene had darted back, and was glaring at Mycroft in shock and anger. 

‘I think not,’ said Mycroft, peering intently at the other Career. 

‘Move,’ hissed Irene. 

‘No,’ replied Mycroft. ‘I will not.’ 

‘Let me kill this stupid little boy,’ Irene gestured, with his knife. ‘He is _pathetic._ He is going to die. So move.’ 

Mycroft was smiling that dangerous, predatory smile. Greg was transfixed, as these two Careers turned on one another. What was this? What was happening? 

He couldn’t comprehend it. He didn’t understand. It was just like everything else that had been happening with Mycroft. Completely and utterly incomprehensible. 

And Suzie. Suzie was bleeding out next to him, and he couldn’t do a fucking thing. 

Mycroft glanced at Greg. 

Greg caught his slate eyes, roving briefly over him, and it was all the chance Irene needed to leap forwards, steel raised, flinging it at Mycroft. 

From there, the clearing was filled with the sounds of clashing steel, and the shadowy forms of the two highly trained Careers going at one another with everything in them. Flashes of steel and skin and auburn hair and cruel eyes. 

‘Suzie,’ Greg whispered, leaning over her. He stroked her hair, gently. ‘Suzie, look at me. Don’t look at them.’ 

The clashes of steel died down, after a moment, and Mycroft was left still standing between Suzie, Greg and Irene. Irene was looking over the three of them with narrowed eyes. 

Mycroft was the first to speak. 

‘Are you certain you want to try this, _Irene?_ ’ he asked, all silky smooth provocation and mockery. ‘Because I can assure you, you will come out worse off.’ 

‘This is a betrayal,’ whispered Irene, outraged and angry. ‘This is a betrayal and I won’t have it. I will _kill_ you, Mycroft Holmes. Jim and I will both hunt you down and kill you and what for? This little boy? You are throwing your life away.’ 

Mycroft just smiled. ‘Run along to _Jimmy boy,_ Irene. Quickly now, before I lose my temper.’ 

‘Mycroft… think about what you are doing.’ 

‘I have,’ Mycroft replied. ‘Your time is running out, Irene dear. _Run.’_

And Irene, her black hair a mess of curls, turned, and ran away. 

Greg turned his attention back to Suzie, who was looking up at him, and him alone. 

‘What… what happened?’ she asked, hoarsely. 

‘I don’t know,’ he replied, equally as hoarse, the tears bitter on his lips. ‘Don’t talk, Suzie. You’ll wear yourself out. I’ll get the bandages. You’re gonna be fine.’ 

‘No…’ she whispered, ‘I’m not. Don’t lie to me, Greg… please. You never have before…’ 

‘Shhh… no…’ Greg replied. ‘We’ll get you help, yeah?’ 

‘Gregory,’ said Mycroft, laying a hand on Greg’s shoulder. Greg lashed out an arm. 

‘You stay out of this, or I fucking swear I will kill you!’ Greg roared at Mycroft, who reeled back, honest surprise on his face. 

‘Hey Greg…’ whispered Suzie,’ Don’t blame him. It’s not his fault.’ 

‘I can’t… no…’ 

‘Greg…’ she said, softly, ‘I’m alright.’ 

‘You’re not!’ Greg exclaimed, softly, ‘You’re not alright. This isn’t alright. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t fucking be here. You have your whole life ahead of you.’ 

‘Thank you,’ said Suzie, softly. ‘Thank you for these last few days, Greg. They’ve been… wonderful.’ 

She was crying now too, and Greg could feel his own tears, dripping down to mix with hers on her own small face. 

’No, Suzie… please… don’t do this… don’t leave me here alone. I don’t want to be alone.’ 

‘You’re not gonna be,’ said Suzie. Greg looked away, the pain hitting him in the chest. ‘Thank you for telling me the truth… that time.’ 

Her grip on his hand was getting gentler, softer.

‘I don’t think I thanked you for that,’ she whispered. ‘I know… I was mad…. I just… I didn’t want to know… the truth… but thank you… for telling me…’ 

‘You’re welcome,’ Greg whimpered, through his tears. 

‘You have to win,’ said Suzie. ‘You have to.’ 

Greg felt like he had been shot through the heart. He shook his head, biting his lip. 

‘And… for what it’s worth… you were a great big brother.’ 

Suzie took one last breath, an inhale, and didn’t exhale again. Just like that, as if she had fallen into a heavy sleep. 

Her breath was gone, her hand was loose in his, slumping to the ground. 

‘No,’ Greg whispered, reaching for her hand and squeezing it, tapping her on the shoulder. ‘No, Suzie, no, you can’t do this. You can’t do this to me.’ 

There was no response. Suzie was quiet, her eyes glazed and staring up at Greg, entirely dead. No breaths came from her mouth, and her muscles were still and stiff. She laid in Greg’s lap, her blonde locks haloed around her small, pale face. 

She looked so tiny, laying here in the dirt, young and innocent. Aside from her eyes, which betrayed her as entirely too dead, she was almost sleeping.

Then, the cannon fired overhead. 

Greg barely heard it. Reaching weakly, he closed her eyes. Both his hands and most of his body was stained with her blood, and his face was stained with tears. Biting his lip, Greg looked away. 

There was too much. This was all too much. He couldn’t cope. He couldn’t. 

Too much. Too much. Too fucking much, too much, too much too much too much. 

Greg stood, barely registering that Mycroft was standing on the other side of the clearing, rapier hanging loosely by his side. 

Boiling rage roiled in the pit of his belly, as well as bone deep sadness, longing, horror… anger. So much anger. So much fucking anger at Irene and Moriarty and Mycroft and _everyone._ Just everyone. She didn’t deserve this. 

It was just too much. Far too much for Greg to think about, too much for Greg to feel. Too many things. 

Mycroft took a hesitant step forwards towards him. 

‘Gregory?’ he asked, softly. Every hint of Mycroft’s predatory nature, every trace of the highly trained, extremely clever Career hiding under that skin was gone. Mycroft was standing there, his posture loose, slate eyes regarding Greg carefully. 

He didn’t seem to know what to do. 

That was suddenly hysterical to Greg. 

Greg threw his head back, and laughed. 

Mycroft repeated himself, more confusion injected into his tone. ‘Gregory? Are you alright?’ 

The absurdity of that question set Greg laughing again. 

‘Gregory… you’re bleeding…’ 

‘Oh?’ asked Greg, looking down in search of his own red lifeblood. Only Suzie’s seemed to stain his clothing and his body and his heart and his fucking soul. Perhaps he had missed something. ‘Am I?’ 

And suddenly, it was too much. The black haziness that was lingering around the edge of his vision swept in, and Greg felt himself begin to fall, trapping him in a moment of vertigo, as he lost consciousness. 

***

As soon as John opened the door, Sally ushered Maya, Alex and Lottie into the house, as well as Molly and Sam. They had all come over to sit by John and watch what was happening today. Greg had a plan, they had all seen it on the tele screen last night. A plan that, by Sally’s standards, was risky and foolhardy and was almost certainly not going to go the way that the stupid grey-haired bastard wanted it to go. 

By general consensus, they had all agreed to come along and watch it with him. Comfort him, if need be, and, if Sally saw fit, take him away so he didn’t have to watch. 

John’s emotions had been running high, particularly in the last few days, over Suzie and how close Suzie and Greg were to one another. 

‘Hey John,’ Sally greeted the younger boy, ruffling his hair. 

‘Hey, Sally,’ John replied, in turn, grinning up at her. The grin was strained around the edges, as the other children had all piled past him already, rampaging through the house and finding various comfy spots on the sofa. 

Maya was sitting, chatting quietly with Molly, and so Sally took the chance to have a little chat with John.

‘Are you alright?’ she asked him, softly. John bit his lip. 

‘Yeah,’ he replied, nodding. ‘I’m fine.’ 

‘Liar,’ Sally grinned, ruffling John’s blond locks again. 

John didn’t deny it, but he didn’t confirm it, either. Instead, the younger blond just returned to the spot that had been left clear for him on the sofa. Sally took her own spot on the end of the sofa, sitting on the arm next to the younger blond. 

Maya looked over at her questioningly, patting the arm on the soft chair she was sitting on. Sally just shook her head. 

_‘Can’t,’_ she mouthed at her girlfriend. _‘Think I gotta stick by John.’_

Maya nodded her acceptance, and turned her eyes to the tele screen. The children were dying down, calming and settling. John, however, was stiff beside Sally. 

He was always stiff these days, really. 

Reaching out a hand, Sally laid it gently on John’s shoulder, pressing lightly in a gesture of comfort that she found comforting, herself. John didn’t express anything other than a slight loosening of the tension in his shoulders, but it was something. It was going to have to do, for now. 

On the screen, the two plastic twats were chatting back and forth. They got on Sally’s nerves more and more, the longer the Games wore on. There was a sort of exhaustion amongst them all. An exhaustion with the Games as a whole, with the emotions the Games forced everyone through. It was hard enough, having to watch those you cared about, those you genuinely wanted to see again, having to go through this. 

Particularly after that horrible moment when Greg killed Janine for Suzie, Sally had felt more and more fatigue with John. Fatigue and desperation and an underlying acceptance that even if Greg was to come back, he wasn’t going to come back whole. 

His chances of survival were dismal as they were, and already, Greg seemed to be giving up a lot of his will to live. However, yesterday, John had been a little perkier at the prospect of Greg’s plan. 

Greg and Suzie together, as well, had given John both a little more hope, and a little more despair, all rolled up into a neat little package. Sally knew John was jealous, even if the younger boy didn’t recognise it for himself. He had had Greg to himself for such a long time, and now Greg was caring for another child. Greg was showing off those almost admirable caring skills, his capacity to just… love. 

John was selfish, Sally realised. He was still a child, with childish urges and wants and he was selfish of Greg, and of the attention Greg was lavishing on the little girl. 

On the screen, images of Greg and Suzie’s time together were playing. The sweet laughs, the easy camaraderie. 

_‘Oh, isn’t it just so sweet, Claudius,’_ crooned Caesar. _‘The Silver Knight caring for his Princess. Just like he should.’_

_‘Mmm,’_ agreed Claudius. _‘It is sweet. And it is such a tragedy, as well. ‘_

_‘Yes, the everlasting tragedy of the Games. It is such a shame we can’t do more to help them!’_

Sally had the sudden urge to be sick. To scream at the sky the injustice and unfairness. Because the bloody Capitol could do something. They just choose not to. There’s a difference between _can’t,_ and _won’t._ A huge difference. 

Propaganda, the whole stinking lot of it. Propaganda, to make the Capitol something that it just wasn’t. 

_‘This day is already shaping up to be exciting. With the alliances between the talented Tributes of Districts One, Two and Four and between our two favourite District Ten Tributes coming into conflict, what happens today, Caesar, will determine the course of the rest of the Games, I think.’_

_‘I’m going to have to agree with you, Claudius,’_ said Caesar, raising one navy blue eyebrow. _‘It is going to be terribly interesting to see what happens.’_

_‘Who are you rooting for?’_ asked Claudius. 

Caesar bit his lip. _‘Now that_ is _an interesting question. On one hand, we have the delightful strong, talented, and clever Mycroft Holmes, the Great Tactician, as he is called. With him, there is the Woman, Irene Adler, the talented vixen. And of course, we can’t forget James Moriarty.’_

_‘James Moriarty, now there’s an interesting one. Proving to be one of the Games’ most enigmatic characters, really.’_ Sally leaned forwards raising an eyebrow in interest. 

Her impression of the Career had been that he was a snake. A snake in the grass, prepared to strike out against the other Tributes if need be. He was an unknown quantity, in a lot of ways. 

He was unknown, in that she knew Mycroft Holmes was an unstoppable, unflappable force, but James Moriarty was just this side of cruel and insane. 

There was one instance, where he had hunted down a Tribute on the first day who had just left the Square. Hunted this poor girl down with a vicious intent, striking her down with that horrible whip of his. He had almost seemed to enjoy torturing her, cutting her apart with a knife until she was begging for death. 

It was so sickening, that even the Capitol had blurred out some of the carnage. 

_‘Mmm. He will be a contender. Him and his friend, that boy from District Four, Sebastian Moran.’_

_‘Bit of a brute, him. But always interesting to watch the brutes, isn’t it, Caesar?’_

Caesar nodded. 

_‘However,’_ continued Claudius, _‘On the other end, we have the two darlings, District Ten’s pair of little surviving underdogs, Greg Lestrade, the dishy Silver Knight, and Suzie Gates, his precious Princess, his damsel in distress.’_

_‘Oh Claudius,’_ flustered Caesar, waving his hands in the air in a gesture of defeat. _‘I cannot choose. They are both… simply wonderful.’_

_‘Well, you know me,’_ shrugged Claudius, _‘I love an underdog.’_

‘I hope Greg can pull it off,’ whispered John, reaching up to grip Sally’s leg. Sally laid a gentle hand over Greg’s son’s. 

‘I hope so too,’ she admitted, quietly.

On the screen, the image had moved to that of Suzie and Greg, talking. 

_‘So, folks, our favourite little underdogs have been setting up all morning. They’ve set up three pyres, all near to where the other major Tribute alliance has set up their base of sorts.’_

_‘And where is that, Claudius?’_ asked Caesar. An image flashed up on the screen, the feed from the Careers’ spot by the lake. 

_‘By a lake, it appears. In a small, overgrown park in the south west side of the Arena. By comparison, Suzie Gates and Greg Lestrade are in the mid north east, however both alliances are actually quite close to one another.’_

A map of the Arena showed the route from where Suzie and Greg were, across the central square where the Cornucopia Clock Tower was located. 

_‘Caesar, it looks like the Silver Knight is off,’_ said Claudius, as an image of Greg sprinting down an overgrown street showed up. 

_‘Yes, and we should definitely check in on little Suzie, have a look and see what she’s up to.’_

Immediately, the screen flashed back to Suzie, who was trying to spark up the pyre. 

_‘Looks like she’s struggling a little with it.’_

_‘I’m sure she’ll get it. And back to Greg.’_

Sally watched the proceedings, as Greg made his way steadily across the Arena, towards where the Careers were having their stockpile. She watched them get called away by the promise of smoke and fresh meat, and then, to her surprise, watched Greg set fire to the stocks. 

Slightly numbly, she watched. 

‘Yes!’ cheered Molly, when the pile went up in flames, as did the other children. Beside her, John leapt up in his seat, and pumped the air, honest excitement and joy at Greg’s victory shining through. It was wonderful to see.

Sally smiled with the best of them. 

John and the rest did settle down, after a moment, and John returned to his sitting position beside Sally. 

‘Sally?’ he asked her, confusion in his tone. ‘You don’t seem very excited.’ 

‘I am,’ she reassured him, smiling tightly. ‘It’s wonderful.’ 

On screen, the two hosts had applauded Greg’s fire, and then showed images of people in the Capitol, standing out on the street in their dolled up make up, and cheering for Greg on big screens in their gleaming city. 

_‘Well,’_ smiled Claudius, _‘Seems like our wonderful city is happy to see our Silver Knight win something.’_

Sally felt angry at that. Numbly so, though. She was so used to the biting edge of anger over the whole, consuming affair that the edge had gone, somewhat. The anger was always there, simmering under the surface, so it was too difficult to imagine a life without it. 

She was just always angry. Constantly. 

It was horrible. 

Greg wasn’t _theirs._ He wasn’t their fucking plaything, to watch dance and sing for them on the tele screen. He wasn’t their precious Silver Knight, either. He was a person. A real person with thoughts and feelings and not some handsome, dishy Knight to sweep them all off their feet. 

Goddamit, he was _theirs_. He was John’s and Sally’s and Molly’s and Alex’s and Lottie’s. He was their friend, their _family._ And this wasn’t fair. 

Sally had to take in a deep breath, just as there was an explosion on the screen. An enormous boom, that Sally was certain rattled the tele screen itself. 

Molly let out a low scream, and suddenly, John was gripping Sally’s arm fiercely. 

The cannon went off. 

_‘Fuck,’_ Sally swore. If that was Greg… if that was Greg, Sally had no idea what she was going to do.

_‘Oh, dear, Claudius, what just happened?’_

_‘I don’t know, let’s take a look!’_

The screen flashed to a slightly staticky image of Greg, picking himself up off the ground. Immediately, Sally felt a wave of relief wash over her, and she felt guilty, as well. Some poor bastard had just died, even if he wasn’t a nice bastard, it was still a death. 

Then, the screen flashed back to the supplies, which had been blown to shreds. There was nothing left but a bit of ash, and a dissipating pillar of smoke. 

_‘I do believe that was Sebastian Moran who was just killed by the explosion, Claudius.’_

_‘Pity,’_ said Claudius himself, shaking his head. _‘Do we know yet what caused the explosion?’_

_‘No,’_ shrugged Caesar, ‘ _It seems to be quite the mystery. Even the Gamemakers aren’t entirely sure what caused it. We’ll get word in a few moments, hopefully.’_

The hosts continued to natter on, mindlessly, but Sally looked at the screen, where Greg was being shown now moving through the forest at a more reasonable speed, as if he were just sitting on the heels of his victory. 

Then, he seemed to look up. 

_‘Claudius, what’s going on here?’_ asked Caesar, his voice full of query. 

_‘What do you mean?’_

_‘I think Greg Lestrade’s looking at something, here.’_

_‘I think you might be right.’_

On the screen, the camera zoomed out to show the roof of a nearby building. Poised on the edge was Mycroft Holmes, a long, thin, rapier by his side. 

‘Run, Greg,’ urged John, gripping Sally’s hand tightly. ‘Run!’ 

But neither Greg nor Mycroft were doing anything other than look at one another. 

Then, slowly, Mycroft raised his sword. Greg raised his, in return, and they seemed to share a bit of a smile. 

_‘This is an interesting turn of events, isn’t it,’_ commented Caesar. _‘It doesn’t seem like we’re going to get the anticipated duel between the Silver Knight and the Great Tactician any time soon.’_

_‘Mmm,’_ said Claudius, _‘It is a shame, but we may be seeing the rise of a new alliance between the two powerhouse Tributes.’_

_‘Indeed we might be. We’ve been seeing a lot of these shared looks recently, haven’t we? Remember when our Silver Knight and Great Tactician locked gazes after that wonderful hunt of the Tribute from District Five?’_

_‘Yes, and of course, there was the one where Mycroft allowed both Suzie and Greg to escape when he, Jim and Irene were hunting them down.’_

_‘It is interesting. Leads one to wonder if they made some sort of pact outside of the Arena, before the Games started. Although it would be strange. Never before has there been an alliance between a District Ten Tribute and a District One Tribute.’_

_‘I suppose, though, Caesar, that these Tributes are unlike any we’ve seen before, really.’_

_‘They are rather outside the ordinary, Claudius, with Mycroft Holmes being—‘_

The two inane commenters were cut off by Greg taking off through the thick growth. Mycroft had pointed to something, and Greg had taken off like he had a stick up his arse. 

Molly was peering at the screen, intently, and Sally did the same, trying to spot the catalyst for Greg’s sudden mad, panicked dash. 

‘What?’ asked Maya, ‘What is it?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ replied Sally. 

Molly pointed, quietly. ‘There are only two pillars of smoke.’ 

‘Yeah, so?’ Charlotte mumbled, querulously. 

‘Didn’t Suzie and Greg set up three?’ 

John let out a low gasp next to Sally, and his hand tightened around hers. 

‘Yeah,’ agreed Sally. ‘Yeah, they did.’ 

‘Oh, shit,’ whispered Maya, as Greg screamed out Suzie’s name through the underbrush. He was sprinting full tilt now, back the way he came. 

Past the first pyre, still flaming, and then the second. He tripped and fell, at one point, earning himself a gash on the forehead for his efforts, but continued on as if nothing had happened. He continued to scream out the other District Ten Tribute’s name, until she replied. 

All of them let out low gasps at seeing the predicament that Suzie was in, and collectively let out sighs of relief as Greg let the younger girl free. 

The only one who didn’t was John. 

Sally bit her lip. 

And, of course, John’s grip only tightened when Irene, one of the Careers who held an enormous, silver axe, walked in. She stood there for a few moments, and it wasn’t until Suzie raised her head that she spotted the other Tribute. 

Immediately, Greg got up. 

Sally tensed, and tugged John to her side. 

‘John,’ she whispered, ‘You don’t… you shouldn’t…’ 

‘What?’ asked John, fiercely, looking up at her. Those navy eyes were stormy, and in his other hand, he was clutching his tin soldier tightly to his chest. 

‘Nothing,’ replied Sally, weakly. 

_‘Oh, goodness, the tension mounts, doesn’t it, Caesar?’_

_‘Indeed it does.’_

Irene provoked Greg. Sally wanted to smack her head against a wall for Greg’s idiocy in falling for it. Because that was exactly what he did. The idiot charged, and then the unthinkable happened. 

On the cameras, it looked like the dagger just sprouted from Suzie’s chest, like it had grown there spontaneously. 

Molly, Maya and Lottie let out a scream of shock, and Alex hid his face in Maya’s leg. 

‘Fuck,’ Sally whispered, holding her other hand to her mouth. John’s hand was like a vice around her own, and his navy eyes were fixed on the screen with a sort of avid fascination and horror. 

Greg reversed directions, collapsing next to Suzie.

‘No, Greg, move,’ hissed John. ‘Please, please… move…’ 

Irene wandered lazily up behind Greg. 

‘No, no, no, no no no no no,’ whispered Molly. 

Sally let out a low stream of curse words, as Lottie, Maya and Alex hid their faces. 

Sally closed her eyes, and moved her other hand to cover John’s eyes. John didn’t even fight her. 

Everything was tense. Every bone in her body felt like it was brittle, as if the smallest thing was going to shatter her apart. Her skin felt too tight, and her stomach was roiling. 

And then came the clash of steel. 

Everyone screamed. 

But that wasn’t the sound of Greg dying. Sally dropped her hands from her face. 

Everyone else was dong the same. 

Limply, she watched the figure of Mycroft Holmes dart from the shadows, and collide with Irene’s blade, blocking her blow. 

Everyone was silent. 


	22. Tower

Greg came to with his head pounding and his body feeling like it had been beaten solidly by a hammer more than once, and then run over by a herd of cattle. 

He groaned, sitting up and blinking his eyes. He was completely shirtless, and some sort of blanket was pulled over him, which collapsed down to his waist when he sat upright. Scrubbing a hand over his face to clear away the debris of sleep, he blinked a few times to clear his vision. 

Slowly, his surroundings came into focus. 

He was in a room, encased in a large, almost fluffy sleeping bag. One wall of the room was entirely fallen-down, and covered over with a sheet to give him some semblance of privacy. The window opposite him was devoid of glass, and provided the soft breeze that was ruffling over his features. 

Outside, it was almost heading towards night. The sun coloured the sky a dark, dark red, and purple of the night was showing through. It bathed the room in a little glow, but not so much that it shone in Greg’s eyes. 

His bag, and sword, were sitting in the corner by the door Greg hadn’t even realised was open. It was angled just so, giving Greg a little privacy but at the same time letting him see out. 

Taking a moment, Greg leant back, lying down with his head cushioned on a large, soft sack filled with something in mockery of a pillow. He tried to piece together what had happened, but his memory of the whole thing was a little hazy. 

Suzie and he had succeeded. That much he was certain of. Then… oh God. 

Then Suzie had died. She’d been killed — murdered — by Irene. And he was going to be killed by Irene too. 

Mycroft. 

Fuck… what? 

Mycroft had stopped her. Had fought Irene, had almost killed her. Had threatened to kill her if she didn’t leave. 

And Suzie was still dead. 

What was happening?

Greg let out a gust of air from his lungs, raising a hand to ruffle his silver locks. He tried to make sense of the whole thing. 

What did this mean? Why had Mycroft saved him? Why not just let him die?

Fuck, he was going to have to die at some point! Why couldn’t it have been then? 

As a matter of fact, what the fuck was going on with Mycroft? Did they have some sort of alliance? Greg didn’t think so. That wasn’t what they had talked about on the roof, that seemed like it had been an era ago. They hadn’t talked… about anything, really. 

To this day, Greg didn’t really understand what it was that had happened. 

He had to know. He had to find out. 

Greg’s bones creaked in protest, and his joints practically screamed as he pushed himself upright. Taking up the sword, he gently pushed the door open, cautious as ever. His senses were all on high alert, ready for Mycroft to leap around the corner and reveal it was all a big trick and he was going to die now. 

Perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. 

Something else he noticed, as he got to his feet, was that the room he was in was ever so slightly tilted on an angle. It took a little getting used to, and he almost tripped as he walked. 

Stepping around the corner, out of the hallway that his room had been at the end of, he came out into what appeared to be a somewhat functional kitchen. In that it still had benches, and a few cupboards, two of which actually had doors. 

On one of the kitchen benches was a pile of various dried foods, dried apricots and peaches and the like. Additionally, there were some biscuits, and aluminium bottles of water. 

It was quite a stash, and Greg let his guard down a little, stepping closer to inspect the supplies more carefully. 

In doing so, he stepped out into the kitchen, noticing that it was adjoined with a sitting room, in which a few wooden crates were set up. 

‘Ah good,’ said a silky voice, from around the corner. ‘You’re awake.’ 

Greg startled, whirling, and raising his sword out in front of him in a defence. 

Mycroft, in all his regal glory, was sitting on one of the overturned crates, his rapier in his hands. He had a cloth in his other hand, and was gently running it over the blade, polishing it to a shine. 

‘Mycroft,’ croaked Greg, all to aware of his hoarse throat. ‘What…’ 

‘Do not strain your voice, Gregory,’ Mycroft murmured, rising to his feet and setting his rapier down by his side. 

As he approached, Greg raised his sword higher, in an attempt to ward off the approach of the Career. Mycroft curled his lip, but stopped. ‘I want to look at the gash on your head, Gregory,’ he explained, gesturing. 

‘Oh,’ huffed Greg, dropping his sword to his side, the wind disappearing out of his sails. ‘I…’ 

‘Gregory,’ said Mycroft, softly. It was enough to silence Greg, the sound of that silky smooth purr washing over him. Mycroft’s voice was entirely concern, his slate grey eyes soft in the dimming light. 

The concern in Mycroft’s voice was undeniable. As was the soft, almost purring sensation of his voice. It was enough to entirely calm Greg, reminding him of floating on a pool of warm water at the beach. 

Strange, that.

Mycroft stepped closer, and raised a pale, long fingered hand to Greg’s chin, tilting it so Mycroft could look more closely at the cut. Mycroft was but a hair’s breadth away, his jaw at Greg’s eye level. 

‘How… how is it?’ asked Greg, trying to ignore the way his heart was racing, and how Mycroft’s long fingers were perfect and soft and warm and gentle and perfect… 

Greg mentally berated himself. There wasn’t time or energy for that sort of bullshit. Not here. Not now. 

‘You shall live,’ remarked Mycroft, tapping Greg on the chin, before releasing him. Greg smiled, softly. 

‘Thank you,’ he said, stepped back out of Mycroft’s space, in an effort to get some sort of breathing room. Hopefully so he wouldn’t have to continue to inhale Mycroft’s intoxicating scent, a mixture of some sort of herb, the ocean, and the scent of lightning in the air. ‘For what it’s worth, I mean…’ he rubbed his hand through his hair, awkwardly, unsure of how to continue. ‘I don’t know why you saved me. I can’t begin to understand what’s happening here, Mycroft, I can’t… but… thank you.’ 

Mycroft smiled, a slow, small thing that only just turned up the edges of that mouth, but it entirely transformed Mycroft’s face. Before, he had been a study in darkness, in predatory, evaluating expressions and deadpan eyes over a hawk-like nose. Now, however, with that small, swift smile, Mycroft was… gorgeous. He was a wonderful painting in rich, vibrant hues, auburn and cream and pink and eyes like the ashes of a fire the morning after, once it has all burnt down. 

‘You are welcome, Gregory,’ he replied, equally as soft. ‘Perhaps one day, you will understand.’ 

Greg gazed at Mycroft, finally able to do nothing but look at the other Tribute. Everything about him was leonine, graceful, enticing Greg to peer closer.

Now, he could. 

They were locking eyes, Greg knew. Greg could watch, carefully, the interplay in Mycroft’s eyes, the subtle shifts of darker and lighter ash-colour moving like a mesmerising water droplet. 

Suddenly, the sound of the Capitol’s anthem rang through the place they were in, prompting Greg to immediately look away, and ruffle his hair, awkwardly. 

‘Come along,’ said Mycroft, briskly. ‘We should watch today’s passings.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg replied, weakly, following after Mycroft. The Career had taken up his rapier once more, and was walking towards an opening in the wall that had clearly once been a window. Mycroft gestured Greg through, allowing him out onto a balcony that hung off the side of the building they were in. 

It too was tilted at an angle, not so extreme to be annoying, but extreme enough to be noticeable. And it was immediately obvious to Greg why. 

The building they were in was one of the flooded skyscrapers, leaning against another skyscraper to form a sort of narrow arch. They were on the second top most floor, and a metal fire escape, rusted and worn, was hanging off the side of the balcony, clinging for dear life. 

One thing Greg also noticed was that the view was stunning. It was cold, and the wind was slightly brisk, rushing over Greg’s bare skin and making his nipples peak, but it was beautiful. The sun lit up the horizon in a riot of gold and yellow and bronze and orange and red. The water on which their building sat was brilliantly orange in reflection of the sky, and the first hints of purple were showing through. 

High above the sun, over the burgeoning navy of late evening, the Capitol emblem was projected by some unseen hovercraft. The anthem rang out, high and loud, through the Arena. 

Slowly, the emblem faded away, to be replaced by an image of Sebastian Moran, from District Four. His ugly features were coloured in grey and white over the night sky, stoically looking out over them with dark, piggy eyes. 

‘I killed him, didn’t I?’ asked Greg, softly. ‘With that fire.’ 

‘No,’ replied Mycroft, standing with his hands folded over the hilt of his rapier, the point pressed down into the concrete and wood of the balcony beneath their feet. ‘You didn’t.’ 

‘But it was my fault. If I hadn’t set the fire, he would still be alive.’ 

‘And you likely wouldn’t be.’ 

‘That doesn’t make it right,’ Greg replied, his voice quiet and hoarse. 

Mycroft didn’t say anything. 

Greg sighed, and leant forwards against the beaten black metal railing, wound with vines, moss and weeds. 

The next image to show up was that of Suzie. Her eyes were soft and wide in the camera, and the gentle curves of her face made her look so young, and so innocent, that it broke Greg’s heart. Ripped it into tiny shreds. 

Tears threatened behind Greg’s eyes, and he didn’t stop them falling. As a mark of respect to the girl he had tried to care for, he didn’t stop the tears from pouring down his face. 

Leaning forward, into his hand, he let his shoulders shake, and bit his lip hard to stop the howl he wanted to let loose from freeing itself. 

Mycroft was as still and silent as a statue next to him. 

Even as the sky darkened, and the image of Suzie’s beautiful, young, innocent face disappeared, Greg continued to cry. 

The image of her face was already beginning to fade behind his eyelids. He knew that he wouldn’t forget, entirely. Not for another ten years, or so, but he would eventually forget. He would forget the planes and lines of her face and maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so fucking much, but it did. 

Right now, he could only see the redness of her blood, seeping through her shirt, dark and damp and sticky. Staining his clothes with it’s colour, streaking her face with rusty wetness. 

The knife protruding from her chest. 

The sad look in her eyes as she closed them for that final time, and it was too much. Everything was just too fucking much, and right now, he didn’t have the option of passing out. Not again. 

‘Gregory,’ said Mycroft, gently. Every trace of the predator, the Career, was gone from the way he spoke Greg’s name. ‘It… it wasn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.’ 

‘If it hadn’t been for my stupid plan, then she’d still be alive.’ 

‘You don’t know that,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘And that “stupid plan” was the bravest thing I have ever seen anyone do. Both of you. But, then again, you are perhaps the bravest person I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.’ 

Greg let out a bitter, ironic laugh, from behind his tears. ‘I’m not all that, Mycroft. I’m not that stupid Silver Knight the Capitol keeps making me out to be. I’m not that guy. I couldn’t ever be.’ 

‘But you are,’ Mycroft retorted, his voice but a murmur on the wind. ‘You are that person. That “guy”, as you so eloquently put it.’ 

‘And what about you, _Great Tactician?_ ’ mocked Greg. ‘Are you all that, too?’ 

‘I would not know,’ Mycroft shrugged. 

‘I think you are. You set this up, didn’t you?’ 

‘No,’ said Mycroft, the honesty in his voice striking a chord inside Greg. ‘I did not. I did put the explosives there, I will admit. But I did not think Irene would do that. I thought she would follow me back to the camp.’ 

‘She didn’t,’ said Greg, bitterly. 

‘No,’ agreed Mycroft. ‘She did not. She defied expectations, in a way I did not expect of her.’ 

‘Maybe you aren’t as good as they seem to think you are, then,’ Greg spat, softly ironic. 

Mycroft looked down at his hands, folded over the pommel of his rapier. What could only be called shame coloured the other Tribute’s cheeks, and Greg felt his own rush of guilt flow through him. 

‘So,’ he tried, conversationally. ‘You put the explosives there, huh?’ 

‘I did,’ admitted Mycroft. ‘I knew you were going to set fire to the pile of supplies. So when I planted the explosives, I knew they would go off as they did.’ 

‘And what about the other times?’ demanded Greg. ‘When you let me escape with Suzie, and when you didn’t hunt me down after you saw me on the roof by that pond? And I know you let me escape on the first day, as well, at the Square.’

‘I shall not deny that I have a vested interest in keeping you alive,’ said Mycroft. ‘I did not hunt you down, and I allowed both yourself and Suzie to escape. But you escaped on the first day of your own accord. You never do fit into my plans the way I would prefer it.’ 

‘Great,’ Greg mocked, bitterly. ‘I don’t fit into your plans.’ 

‘You never have. It is, perhaps, one of the most interesting things about you.’ 

‘I’m not that bloody interesting.’ 

‘Trust me,’ said Mycroft, his voice injected with that same predatory tone, all of a sudden, silky smooth and dark. ‘You are.’ 

Greg sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, roughly, before turning and walking back inside. The rooms were far darker, now, and Greg could barely see through the dimness. 

Mycroft glided back inside on silent treads behind him, stepping through into what appeared to be the makeshift living room. Greg looked over, seeing with astonishment what appeared to be some sort of fire pit, well set up with kindling and wood ready to go. 

It was lit fairly quickly, Mycroft simply striking flint and steel, sparking the pile up into a softly flickering burn. 

‘Won’t the other Careers be able to see us?’ asked Greg. 

‘No,’ Mycroft replied, shaking his head. ‘They will not.’ 

‘Where are they?’ 

‘At the park,’ Mycroft murmured, ‘Where we had set up before. They are scrounging… well… Irene is scrounging for scraps.’ 

‘And Moriarty?’ 

Mycroft sighed. ‘I am afraid I do not know. But he cannot reach us, even if he tried.’ 

‘How do you know for certain?’ 

‘There is only one way out here. When the tide is at its lowest point, there is a land bridge between here and the shore. However, as the tide is currently at its highest point and shall remain there for the rest of the evening, he will not be able to reach us.’ 

‘Couldn’t he swim out here?’ Greg questioned, carefully. 

Mycroft looked up, over the fire, at Greg. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That is perhaps a weakness of his. He will not swim. Or more, perhaps, a weakness of all humans.’ 

Mycroft paused, looking down at the dancing flames. They darted around, their light casting shadows over the planes of the Career’s face. 

‘There are things in that water. Things that the Capitol has put there. I do not know what, but I do know that they are only there after dark. Perhaps during the day, he shall swim. But we shall see him coming then. And, at night…’ Mycroft’s lip curled, he didn’t finish the sentence.

‘Oh,’ said Greg, weakly, collapsing next to the fire on top of one of the crates. ‘Right.’ He could guess how it would have ended. 

Mycroft returned to the task of stoking the fire, bringing it high enough so the heat washed through the room, and over Greg’s chilled body. Then, the other Tribute returned quietly to the task of polishing his rapier. It didn’t really need polishing, and Greg got the impression Mycroft was doing it to be busy. To be… occupied. He was uncomfortably familiar with the sensation of needing something to do.

He needed something to do, right now. 

Remembering his sleeping bag, back in the other room, Greg decided he would need to move it out here. It was going to get colder, particularly near the water. 

Getting to his feet, Greg stepped away from the calming warmth of the fire, and towards the other room, down the hall. Then, it was a simple matter of fishing his bag and his sleeping bag and makeshift pillow from the ground, and dragging it back out into the main room. 

Then, he fussed over it, settling it at the right angle to the fire, just so he could lean against one of the crates. He edged it around, a little, just so he could sleep a little closer to Mycroft. 

Not for comfort. Not at all. 

Mycroft looked up at him as he did, before returning to the task of polishing the rapier. 

‘Where’s your sleeping stuff?’ asked Greg, for the purposes of filling the silence. Mycroft shook his head. 

‘You have it,’ he replied. 

‘Oh,’ said Greg, weakly. ‘Well, you can have it back. I have a sleeping bag of my own.’ 

‘It is fine,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘I shall take the first watch, anyway. You should get some rest, you need it the most.’ 

‘I’ll relieve you,’ Greg decided. ‘Just wake me up when you want to sleep, alright?’ 

Mycroft nodded, briefly. 

Silence reigned. 

Greg had so many questions for Mycroft. So many answers he wanted to tease from the other Tribute, trapped on the tip of his tongue, that just wouldn’t come off. He couldn’t say anything, he didn’t know how to ask, not really. 

Laying down in the sleeping bag, Greg opened it up a little to allow the warm air from the fire to wash into it. Resting his head on the rough pillow, Greg folded one arm behind his head, and looked over at Mycroft.

Something about the Career absorbed all of Greg’s awareness. All his thoughts were directed towards Mycroft, as the other Tribute filled the space. It was a relief, in a lot of ways. It sent Janine’s death and Suzie’s death and John’s life to the back of his mind. It made those worries seem as if they were a world away, and this, right here, right now, took every bit of his attention. 

Mycroft was… everything… just… everything, in the flickering firelight. His ginger locks were dark in the light of the dancing flames, the shadows of his eyes complimented by the shifting grey of his irises. They were focused down, where Mycroft was making meticulous strokes over the blade with his cloth. Even now, he looked like a shadow made flesh, someone outside the human. 

‘Mycroft?’ questioned Greg, softly. 

‘Yes, Gregory,’ Mycroft acknowledged, looking up from the blade.

Greg scrambled for something to say. Some way to ask the questions he so desperately wanted to ask. 

‘How did you do this?’ he asked, eventually. ‘How did you get all this stuff out here, set it up like this?’ 

‘At night, when the tide was right’ replied Mycroft. ‘In the early morning. Additionally, I have no qualms about swimming, unlike James.’ 

Greg nodded. ‘Right. Why?’ 

‘I wanted to have a back up,’ Mycroft said, softly. Immediately, Greg could tell that wasn’t the entire story. 

‘Did you… did you plan it this way?’ 

There was silence. Mycroft stopped polishing, and set the blade down by his side. The ginger’s back was straight, his eyes narrowed and focused, and his lips pursed. His face was making a valiant effort at not giving anything away. He certainly gave off a regal, poised air. Even here, at night, with his clothes torn and his face marked and bruised, sitting on a crate, Greg could picture him as a ruler. As a President or a King or _something,_ regal and powerful and omniscient. 

‘There are many possibilities,’ said Mycroft, eventually. ‘There are always many possibilities, many ways a conflict could go. I did certain things to influence that, and I knew that eventually I would need a place like this, somewhere safe to rest. I knew it may have been with you by my side, or with Suzie and yourself by my side, or even with just Suzie—’ 

‘You were going to save her?’ asked Greg, astonished. 

Mycroft looked away, into the fire. ‘I did not know, at the time. I was going to make an effort to, of course.’

Greg fell silent. 

Mycroft continued. ‘This place I set up as a safe haven. As a place for me to come. Originally, the plan was that the explosion would draw my fellow Careers, as you call them, back to the park, and I would go in the opposite direction, to find yourself and Suzie, and bring you both here. That was what I had planned, in an ideal world.’ 

Greg couldn’t bring himself to ask why. 

Why him, of all people? He wasn’t smart, he wasn’t particularly good at anything, really. He only had a strong will to survive, and that wasn’t even that unique, not in these Games. 

And what was the fucking point, anyway? He had to die, eventually, so why the hell was Mycroft going to all this effort? All this trouble, all this time and energy, just to save him for a few days. 

It was too… illogical. Mycroft was a man who operated entirely on logic. Making decisions with the least risk and the most logic. 

This was illogical. This was rash, no matter how Mycroft tried to hide it behind a flimsy veil of logic. It was Mycroft taking a risk. He could have holed up in here, venturing out only to hunt down the other Tributes, and never left otherwise. 

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ said Mycroft. 

Greg snorted. ‘Which one?’ 

‘All of them,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘Everything you are mourning. Your future, perhaps. Your life. Your family.’

‘You’re right,’ said Greg. ‘I am mourning those things. I… I don’t have a future, do I?’ 

Mycroft didn’t reply, which was enough confirmation Greg needed. He didn’t really have a future, not realistically. These Games were going to kill him, one way or another. He was only living on borrow time. 

Greg joined Mycroft in looking into the flames. 

The bright orange licks of heat and fire and flame leapt high, towards the ceiling. They were brilliant in the night air, warm and inviting and reminding him of home with such a vengeance it made Greg’s insides hurt. It reminded him of sitting at home with John, baking bread over the coals. It reminded him of nights where Sally and Molly and Maya and everyone would get together and have a bonfire, just for the fun of it. Roasting meat over the open flames, laughing and joking and playing around with one another. 

Greg opened his mouth. The questions were at the tip of his tongue - why was Mycroft doing this? What was this? What was it that Mycroft kept looking at, what did Mycroft see in Greg? Why had Mycroft saved him? 

Instead, what came out was; ‘What do you miss the most about the Districts?’ 

Mycroft looked up at Greg, sharply, clear shock written on his features. Greg smiled, at his seemingly continued ability to surprise Mycroft Holmes, the Great Tactician. 

Mycroft was quiet, for a moment, before he seemed to rally his mental troops. He smirked, a small, dirty, private thing that Greg felt all the way to the tips of his toes. 

‘That _is_ an odd question.’ 

‘Not really,’ Greg shrugged. ‘I asked Suzie the same thing a few days ago.’ 

‘Oh?’ 

Greg hummed, in response. 

Mycroft finally seemed to take the question seriously, frowning a little and placing one finger delicately on his chin. 

Eventually, he replied. ‘My brother.’ 

‘Your brother?’

‘Yes,’ said Mycroft. ‘Sherlock. My younger brother. He’s only eight, quite young. But he was all I had, for a very long time.’ 

The sincerity in Mycroft’s voice was touching. Greg had no idea if he was telling the truth. Then, he remembered. He had seen a young boy, at the Reaping, who Mycroft had glanced at when heading up onto the stage. Greg had made a small mental note of it, at the time, but hadn’t thought much of it. Now, he remembered. 

‘That kid,’ he said, ‘At the Reaping. The one you looked at when you stepped up onto the stage.’ 

He was rewarded with Mycroft, looking at him in surprise, once more. ‘Yes. I am surprised you noticed that.’ 

‘I pay attention,’ Greg shrugged. ‘And I know the feeling.’ 

‘Ah yes. John Watson. Your son.’ 

‘Not really,’ said Greg. ‘I adopted him, yeah.’ 

‘That makes him your son.’ 

Greg bit his lip, and looked away. He didn’t really know whether he had the right to call John his son, anymore. He didn’t know if he deserved it. John deserved much better than a murderer.

‘You are not a murderer, Gregory,’ said Mycroft, looking at Greg carefully. Greg startled.

‘How did you know I was thinking that?’ 

‘I know the feeling,’ Mycroft quoted. ‘But you are not a murderer.’ 

‘Weren’t you friends with Janine?’ 

‘Colleagues,’ Mycroft said. ‘Acquaintances. Fellows.’

‘So not really.’ 

‘She and I knew each other. We were aware of one another. But she was not from my District. We only met when we came here.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Greg, softly. 

‘That pendant,’ Mycroft murmured, after a moment, gesturing to John’s pendant around Greg’s neck. ‘It was made by John, wasn’t it? For you, especially.’ 

‘Yes,’ nodded Greg. 

‘He gave it to you the day you were Reaped.’ It wasn’t a question. Greg nodded, anyway. 

Silence fell over them. Greg wasn’t really sure what to say. He wanted to ask more questions. Wanted to know the reasons, the answers. But he didn’t know how to ask the questions. 

Mycroft was looking at him, intently now. Being the focus of that slate-grey gaze was like nothing else in the world. Greg could feel the gaze in his bones. Mycroft’s eyes were soul-penetrating, hypnotising. Greg knew very well he could easily get lost in them, get lost in their depths and never ever want to come out again.

There were just so many questions he wanted to ask. So many answers he needed. And he had no idea where to start. There was just… so much. So many things. 

Mycroft was still looking at him. Still evaluating. He seemed to be waiting for something. Waiting for Greg to ask him, waiting for Greg to question him on his motives, his actions. 

That was the cinch, for Greg. 

Instead of asking those hard hitting questions, the ones that Mycroft didn’t really look like he wanted to answer, but would for Greg, Greg left it. He fluffed up the pillow under his neck, and rested there, pulling the sleeping bag around him and curling around the heat generated next to his body. 

There was something very calming. Something supremely therapeutic about it, about just simply lying there, and knowing in his bones that he was safe. Knowing for certain that everything was going to be fine. Mycroft was right there, was waiting for him, and was watching with eyes keener than any Greg had ever seen before. 

It was comforting. Soothing. 

Greg was astonished with the speed that he trusted this man, this Career, just out of nowhere. He knew he was going to be safe. He just knew it, so deep down and intrinsic that it was as if it were written on his soul itself. 

The firelight was flickering behind his eyelids, as he closed his eyes. It basked him in a warm glow, a warm glow that couldn’t solely be attributed to the fire alone. Almost certainly not. 

Mycroft was right there, in arm’s reach. Where Greg to reach out his hand, he would be able to touch the other Tribute. 

There was something about this; this comfortable, fulfilling silence between them that astonished Greg. It was like nothing he had ever felt before. 

Sure, it was like that with John, sometimes. That lack of a need to fill a silence. But this was different. 

This was a silence of comfort and safety, sure. This was a silence filled with reassuring and affirming tones. 

But there was something else, as well. There was a buzz of anticipation in the air. A buzz of knowledge that there were unanswered questions. But they could wait. Those questions could be asked another time. 

There would be time for that. 

Time; that was a lie. 

But Greg could pretend. It seemed, really, like the both of them were pretending, in a lot of ways. Pretending that there was time, silent moments between breaths and words. Time to ask those hard questions, about plans and procedures and plots. Time to ask about reasons, to ask why. 

And that there was time to explore what was between them. Because there was something here - something nameless and faceless that Greg couldn’t describe with a gun to his head. 

It was the knowledge that something was coming. Something that was shared, both good and bad. Greg was aware of Mycroft just as Mycroft was aware of Greg and that was fine. 

Everything was fine. 

Just before Greg fell asleep, Mycroft said so softly, that Greg was certain he was imagining it, just a few quiet words between breaths. 

‘Never fail to surprise me, Gregory.’

***

Greg awoke to Mycroft leaning over him, holding his shoulder gently. Greg smiled, softly, the reality of the Games fading away for a just a moment. 

That fantasy he had thought of, back when he was with Suzie, of Mycroft and himself in a different time and place. A time where he could be free to ask Mycroft, to take advantage of that unfairly sexual, predatory look. 

‘Gregory,’ said Mycroft, gently. ‘I don’t mind continuing the watch, however you did say that you would interested in taking a shift.’ 

‘I did say that,’ Greg replied, grinning. ‘Though, not in as many words.’ 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and pushed off Greg, and Greg actually laughed, sitting upright. 

‘I’ll go watch from the balcony, yeah?’ Mycroft nodded. 

Up close, the other Tribute did look tired. There was a slight slump to his shoulders, rings under his eyes. Mycroft didn’t carry it, though. His posture was still upright, and his eyes were focused and evaluative. 

Greg shook it off, and got to his feet, scrambling for his sword, and leaving the sleeping bag behind. The fire had burned down to just the dimly glowing coals, so the only light was provided by the moon, shining in through the window. 

Moving over through the window, Greg paused, and looked back at Mycroft. The silvery light of the moon made the other man look entirely different. His dark hair was striking, a contrast to the usually lighter, gingery look of it. His skin was shining, as if it in and of itself was a sort of light source, and the long, lean lines of his body cut like a shadow. In that respect, it wasn’t any different. 

It reminded Greg a great deal of what he’d seen in the other Tribute, that evening when he had seen Mycroft from the roof. He had been a lick of shadow and silver at that time, too. 

Stepping outside, before he could become overly distracted, Greg settled himself, leaning against the wall, and peering out into the dark. 

The water below was dark and silvery in the moonlight, the crests and troughs of the waves astonishingly striking. 

When Greg turned, he could see that the water was lapping against the shore. The sound of rumbling water drew Greg to look around the balcony, and he could see that off to his right was the sight that Suzie had told him about, before. One of the skyscrapers, completely devoid of anything but the bottom few floors and a great deal of crumbling scaffolding had water just cascading off it, down into the sea below. 

The other skyscrapers were also visible, astonishing monuments to a time long past, standing against the test of the water, and of time. Their silvery scaffolding was coated with a liberal layer of rust, and rich in life. 

In this silver of the moon, Greg could make out the nests of birds and other various flying life, glittering there. 

The hooting of an owl drew Greg’s attention overhead, as a great horned owl swept across the dome of the night sky, a single flit of shadow against the backdrop of speckled stars. 

If Greg looked closely enough, he quickly realised that the night sky, here, wasn’t actually black. It was a deep, deep, dark navy, striking as a lighter backdrop against the darker colour of the shore, cast in shadow. 

The figure of the rest of the Arena, with its run down buildings and growing in trees, as well as tall, skeletal skyscrapers was an incongruous image. Most times, the line between nature and man-made structures was so well-defined, but here, it wasn’t. 

Here, it was like a smooth blend of the wild and the orderly, the chaos and the peace. 

Greg closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the slightly briny air, before opening his eyes and focusing on the shore. 

That’s when he spotted it. 

A small, skinny figure melted out of the dark line of trees and buildings at the edge of the ocean of water. Greg could recognise that figure anywhere, even though it was in the dark. The silver line of the shore also made the figure stand out even more. 

_‘Moriarty,’_ Greg breathed, quietly. 

The shape of the whip at his side was softly flicking back and forth, and prompted Greg to slide back into the room, and tap Mycroft on the shoulder. 

The other Tribute didn’t seem to really be sleeping, only slightly dozing, as he woke quite quickly, looking up at Greg with eyes bleached of colour by the silvery light.

‘Gregory?’ asked Mycroft, his voice nothing but a warm breath of a whisper on Greg’s jaw. ‘What is it?’ 

‘Moriarty,’ replied Greg. ‘You need to come and see this.’ 

Mycroft didn’t say another word, just folded himself out of bed, and came to the window, leaning around Greg to take a look at where Greg was pointing. 

The figure of James Moriarty was still there on the shoreline, skinny and unmoving, silent and still as a statue. The Career looked like he was carved from some sort of black glass, as still and silent as he was. 

‘What do we do?’ asked Greg, not particularly wanting to acknowledge Moriarty as a reminder of what was to come. 

‘Nothing,’ said Mycroft, softly. ‘I don’t know whether he’s spotted us yet, we cannot be seen from this angle by anyone on the shore. But I highly suspect he has.’

‘And?’ 

‘He cannot reach us. Not right now, and not for several more hours. The high tide is long, and the low tide is short. He shall not be able to reach us, not until the sun rises, at least.’ 

‘And how far off is that?’ 

‘Quite far off,’ Mycroft replied. ‘And even then, I do not believe he will try to attack us today. He has no resources, and he knows that were he to go up against me with nothing to eat and no rest, he will lose.’ 

‘You sound really sure of yourself.’ Greg murmured, in Mycroft’s ear. They were both pressed together, right in the window out to the balcony. They were certainly close enough to be touching, and Mycroft’s leg was pressed against Greg’s tightly. 

‘I am,’ murmured Mycroft, darkly. 

Greg felt a tingle run up his spine. 


	23. Puzzle

Greg sat with his back against the wall, on the balcony. He had been carefully watching Moriarty, who had melted back into the tree-line and buildings soon after he had arrived. Then, it had been a simple matter of waiting for the dawn. 

Sunrise arrived in spectacular fashion, the brilliant pinks and oranges lighting up the sky to the east, over the horizon of broken buildings, skeletal skyscrapers and clustered trees. 

Mycroft had gone back to sleep, but when the other Tribute woke, he made his way out onto the balcony to sit beside Greg. 

Greg took a glance at Mycroft, studiously working to ensure he wasn’t looking longer than he should. Even sleep-rumpled, Mycroft looked regal. 

How the hell did he manage that? It wasn’t fair. 

Greg felt like he had fought a battle, his hair rumpled and his clothes creased. He could feel a yawn threatening behind his lips, and the cold steel of the sword he had kept propped across his lap all night was like a brand, of sorts. 

The one thing he was glad of, though, was that through the constant scrutiny of the shore, waiting Moriarty’s return, he hadn’t really had the time or space to think about other things. Things that could tear him down. And now, with Mycroft here, absorbing every thought he could possibly have, it was sweet relief. 

It was also avoidance, but Greg was determined not to think about that. 

‘How’d you sleep?’ Greg asked. Mycroft blinked at him, then turned back to the horizon. 

‘Fine, thank you,’ he replied, nodding.

They fell into silence, just watching the sun rise over the horizon. 

‘What are we going to do today?’ asked Greg. Mycroft shook his head. 

‘I do not believe there is anything we need to do, today. We do need to perhaps return to the shore to catch meat, but aside from that, we can remain out here.’ 

Greg bit his lip, quietly. Fiddling with his sword, he ran a finger along the flat of the blade, up to the point then back down again. ‘Who is there left alive?’ 

Mycroft furrowed his brow, a look of concentration coming over his features. ‘You, and myself, obviously, as well as Irene and James. There is also a girl, from District Eight.’ 

‘Really?’ asked Greg, shocked. ‘I didn’t know there was another non-Career left.’ 

Mycroft looked at Greg, raising an eyebrow. ‘Can you not count?’ 

Greg rolled his eyes, and, on a sudden whim, he pushed Mycroft’s shoulder just like he would have had it been Suzie. ‘I can count. I have been counting. I just… lost count. Last night.’ 

‘Ah,’ said Mycroft, softly. ‘I understand.’ 

There was another heavy silence. 

Greg wanted so badly to ask. He just wasn’t sure he had the courage. Would Mycroft scoff at his request? But he had saved Greg. What made the girl from District Eight any different?

‘Can we… can we try and help her?’ Greg asked, softly. 

Mycroft sighed, and looked down at his hands. ‘I do not know if that is the best idea.’ 

‘Why not?’ demanded Greg, before he could think better of it. Mycroft looked away, his slate eyes hard and edged with _something_ unnameable. ‘What makes me different from her? Why did you choose to save me?’ 

Mycroft didn’t reply. 

Greg sighed. He shouldn’t have expected an answer, should he have? 

‘Please, Mycroft,’ Greg asked, softly, after a moment. ‘I know I’m gonna die, and she’s probably gonna die, too, just like Suzie did. But I just… I want to make her last few days special, too. I want to. Please?’ 

‘Gregory…’ Mycroft murmured, turning to Greg. Greg locked eyes with those slate greys, watching the helplessness in Mycroft’s posture. ‘Do not ask that of me.’ 

Greg looked away, biting his lip. Did he really have a right to ask that of Mycroft? Did he really have the right to ask Mycroft to ‘save’ another person? It wasn’t like they were going to be saved for long. 

Everyone died, in the end. 

Mycroft sighed, again, and looked out over the sunrise. 

‘Very well,’ the Career whispered. ‘But, understand, Gregory, that she will not come quietly.’ 

‘Why not? She’s got to be as desperate to survive as I was. God knows how and why she managed to get this far.’ 

‘I do not know,’ Mycroft admitted, quietly. ‘It does go against the grain. It is for that very reason that I am concerned.’ 

‘You think it might be a trap, somehow?’ 

‘I do not know,’ said Mycroft. He looked a little vexed by that, as if he couldn’t comprehend not knowing something, not understanding the reasons behind something occurring. 

Greg smiled, at the image. Reaching out, he laid a hand on Mycroft’s knee, grinning as best he could at the Career. ‘Well, you can always take a page out of my book. Rush head-on into situations, cross your fingers and hope for the bloody best.’ 

‘Genius,’ remarked Mycroft dryly. 

Greg threw his head back, and laughed. 

It was a wonderful, refreshing feeling, even as, beside him Mycroft looked a little perplexed. Slowly, the uptight tactician let loose a small smile, and a wry chuckle himself. 

As their laughter died down, Mycroft got to his feet. 

‘We had best make a plan. By the sun, the land bridge should be closed for a few hours yet.’ 

***

Mycroft led Greg down to the bottom of the building, just as the sun reached a point a little higher in the dome of the sky; now a pale blue in colour. Unlike the first few days, these days the sky was always blue, instead of the musty grey colour it had been in the beginning. 

Greg had a pack on his back, and his sword was by his side. Mycroft himself had nothing but his own rapier, and a series of knives which Greg had watched him tuck into various folds in his clothing and the insides of his boots. It was almost astonishing. 

He didn’t really want to be the poor fool to give Mycroft Holmes a hug - he might end up accidentally stabbing himself. That wasn’t to say that he _didn’t_ want to hug Mycroft… 

Never mind. 

The view of the land bridge was quite astonishing. As they walked won, Greg could see the tide was slowly receding, leaving behind a rocky, gravelly sand bar, built on the remnants of what appeared to be a fallen-down building. It formed a bridge, of sorts, between their own building and the shoreline. 

‘That’s amazing,’ Greg remarked, aloud. 

Mycroft looked back at him, cocked his head, those slate eyes evaluating Greg, and then turned to continue down the path. 

Greg rushed to catch up with the Career, trying to keep pace with minimal success with the long-legged Tribute. 

‘Can I ask you something, Mycroft?’ 

‘I believe you just did,’ replied Mycroft, shortly. 

Greg snorted, and pressed on. ‘You know how you went to the Academy? And they taught you how to be a Tribute, and all that? Like how to survive, and things?’

‘I am explicitly aware of that fact, Gregory,’ Mycroft drawled. 

‘Well, what do they teach you?’ 

Mycroft sighed, and seemed to slow, just a little. ‘What do you think they teach us, Gregory?’ 

Greg shrugged. ‘I dunno. Like… weapons, and survival tactics, and things like that.’ 

‘You would be right,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘A great deal of it is to do with survival tactics. How to survive, how to be… logical, and clever.’ 

‘That makes sense,’ said Greg, nodding. ‘But I bet you were already clever before you went in.’ 

‘Objectively, yes, however the skills I learnt there were survival related. For example, how to keep my mouth shut, instead of blurting out everything I know about a person from my first look at them.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ Greg asked, carefully stepping past the slippery parts of the land bridge. 

Mycroft continued to pace along the land bridge, entirely unaffected by simple things like puddles. ‘I can tell from the way you walk that you have been taught survival skills yourself. Likely by an authority figure, most likely your father. You step stealthily, and go out of your way to move by placing your heels down first, and then your toes, to make less noise. 

‘Additionally, your hands are calloused, but not so much that I would think you work with animals that require heavy manoeuvring, such as horses or sheep. You work, therefore, with cows and with chickens.’ 

Greg was astonished. He stopped, in the middle of the narrow walk way, and stared at Mycroft. The Career seemed to sense something was amiss, and turned to look at Greg, one thin brow raised. 

‘That was… amazing…’ Greg said, grinning at the incredible brilliance of the other boy. 

‘Thank you,’ replied Mycroft, seemingly a little thrown off. Then, the Career shook his head, and turned to continue down the land bridge. ‘We must make haste. There is only a little time before the land bridge will close up again. We must look for signs of this District Eight girl, and we also should find some animal to hunt for meat.’ 

Greg smiled, and continued after Mycroft. ‘I like the way you speak.’ 

‘What are you referring to?’ 

‘That,’ gestured Greg. ‘You speak really formally, and quite fancy, too. It’s interesting. And you don’t dumb it down, like I won’t be able to understand you.’ 

Mycroft furrowed his brow. ‘If you did not comprehend what I was saying, I would not find you nearly as interesting as I do.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Greg, weakly. 

They had reached the tree line at this point, and Greg took one look behind them at the rough, rocky form of the fallen-down skyscraper, before following Mycroft into the trees and buildings. 

‘Shh,’ insisted Mycroft, when Greg opened his mouth to continue the conversation. ‘I suspect that Irene and James will be recollecting themselves, and will not think of us venturing far today, however there is a distinct possibility of that occurring.’ 

Greg fell silent, waiting to watch for Mycroft’s lead. Mycroft continued in the narrow, choked up alley between two buildings. However, it was more familiar terrain now. Greg’d gotten quite used to the choked up alleys, broken asphalt and sprouting trees at this point. 

It was comforting, in a way. 

However, it did also remind him of the environment leading up to Suzie’s death. And that, of course, led to nastier thoughts. 

Mycroft had picked up the pace to a light jog through the undergrowth. Greg could already feel the burn in his thighs coming on, but he ignored it as best he could. Mycroft looked like a deer, darting through the trees with a grace and elegance that could only be achieved through a long time spent practicing, over and over again. 

‘I have traps set up nearby,’ said Mycroft, shortly. His voice was smooth, and if Greg wasn’t seeing the evidence before his own eyes, he’d think Mycroft was just standing still, and talking to him. 

‘Alright,’ panted Greg. Mycroft looked over at him. 

‘Would you like me to slow down?’ 

‘No, it’s fine. What were you saying about traps?’ 

‘I have traps set up. I believe there will be some sort of animal trapped in them. We can take that for meat, instead of going to the trouble of hunting something down ourselves. It will only waste time.’ 

‘What about the District Eight girl?’ 

Mycroft sighed, and slowed down. ‘I do not know where she is, Gregory,’ he replied. ‘I am looking for signs of her, however… it is strange. I have not seen signs of her since I have been here.’ 

‘That’s weird,’ said Greg. ‘I reckon you could have tracked me in your sleep.’ He snorted. 

‘Perhaps,’ replied Mycroft, looking over at him. There was, again, a dark, unnameable quality to the other Tribute’s eyes, right at this moment. Something that mesmerised Greg, to a certain extent. 

‘The trap I set should be just around the corner.’ The jarring change to the subject threw Greg, a little, but he quickly recovered, following Mycroft down another alley, where a small pool of fresh water laid, and, on the other side, the trap had clearly been activated. It was a trap just like the one that had caught Suzie, and Greg couldn’t stop his mind flashing back to that moment, for an instant. 

Mycroft stepped over to the trap, and Greg followed. 

‘Mycroft,’ he asked, ‘Did you set up that trap that caught Suzie, yesterday?’ 

Mycroft didn’t reply. The Career was leaning over the trap, kneeling down to take a closer look. The ginger’s face was inscrutable, as he took his rapier in his left hand, and reached out with his right to take up one of the ropes of the trap, holding it up so Greg could take a look. 

The rope, thick and woven, had been sawn right through. 

It was clearly something done by a human, as the cut was even and clean, and couldn’t possibly have been done by some animal’s claws. 

‘Mycroft?’ Greg questioned, kneeling down next to the other Tribute. ‘What is it?’ 

‘I was wrong,’ whispered Mycroft. ‘James does know. He did suspect we would cross the land bridge today.’ 

‘How do you know?’ 

Reaching down, Mycroft’s long fingers fished something out of the dirt. It was a lovely bracelet, somewhat cheap in construction, but still beautiful all the same. Woven out of fine, coloured threads, with colourful stones tied into it, the bracelet coiled, tiny in Mycroft’s hand. It was sitting on top of a folded piece of paper, slightly dirtied and creased. 

‘He left this. It is bait, you realise, Gregory?’ 

‘What does the note say?’ 

Mycroft unfolded it, and held it out for Greg to read. 

_I have a little puzzle for you, Iceman. Let’s see how far you’ll go for your precious Silver Knight. You’ll be rewarded if you solve my little puzzle, of course._

_My dear Mycroft, this is going to be so much_ _fun_ _;-)_

‘Oh,’ said Greg, weakly. It felt like he’d been doing that a lot, recently. Looking up, Greg locked eyes with Mycroft, trying to get some sort of read on the other Tribute. 

Mycroft’s face was dark, his slate grey eyes focused. His posture was entirely too tense, but he was holding the bracelet with a forced, studied casualness. It was, of course, betrayed by the white knuckled grip he had on his rapier. 

‘What’s the bracelet for?’ Greg asked, softly, already knowing the answer.

‘It belonged to the District Eight girl,’ Mycroft replied, fulfilling Greg’s suspicion. ‘She showed it off during the interviews. She said her mother had made it for her.’ 

Greg wasn’t sure how to reply. Mycroft looked at him, expectantly. 

Sighing, Greg scrubbed a hand through his hair, sitting down more fully on his haunches. ‘What are our options?’

‘The safest one would, of course, be going back,’ Mycroft replied, instantly. ‘It would be best, however it would ensure that this District Eight girl dies.’ 

Greg sighed. 

This was difficult. On one hand, both him and Mycroft were safe, for the time being. By doing this, they were falling into Moriarty’s trap, right on Moriarty’s lap, to be honest. But it did provide a chance of helping one other person. Making one other poor, innocent child a little happier, more comfortable, on their last few days. 

‘Ask it of me, Gregory,’ said Mycroft, quietly. ‘I will do it. For you.’ 

‘Why?’ asked Greg, fiercely. ‘Why would you do that for me?’

‘Logically, it is a poor choice. It is in my best interests not to,’ admitted Mycroft. ‘This is a fool’s errand. However…’ 

Mycroft trailed off. 

It didn’t look like he was going to say anything more, so Greg looked down at his hands. Mycroft had placed the choice in his hands.

‘I don’t know much about you,’ said Greg. ‘I don’t really know anything about you, actually. All I know is you’re clever. You’re the cleverest, wisest person I’ve ever met.’ 

‘I am not kind, Gregory,’ said Mycroft. ‘I would like to be, perhaps, but I am not.’ 

Greg scrubbed a hand over his eyes. This was the sort of moment where you decided what was right, and what was easy. 

‘I would like to take you back, Gregory. I would like to take the both of us back to the tower and stay there, for as long as we possibly can. It is perhaps not kind, perhaps quite selfish.’ There was a darkness to Mycroft’s voice. Something fierce and dangerous and dark and Greg wanted so badly to look closer. To examine what that meant. 

He couldn’t begin to comprehend Mycroft’s motivations, here. Mycroft was… he was _something._ For some reason, he wanted Greg to be safe, by any means necessary, save his own life. 

‘I don’t know, Mycroft, I don’t,’ Greg muttered. ‘But I do know that out there, somewhere, there’s a little girl who is so scared, and so alone, and so afraid. She’s by herself, Mycroft.

‘I could never solve whatever the fuck it is that bastard has set up for us, but I do know that you can. So yes, I’m going to ask you to help me save that girl. Even… I know… even in the end it’s not gonna matter. Both me and her are gonna die, eventually. But… why make it torturous?

‘That bastard’s gonna torture her to death if we don’t do this. You know that, don’t you? There were some things Suzie told me about Moriarty. Horrible, horrible things. Things I don’t even want to think about. I don’t want those things to happen to anyone. Let alone some poor girl from District Eight.’ 

Mycroft nodded. ‘Very well.’ 

Greg looked up, astonished. ‘What? That’s it? You’re just gonna agree, like that?’

‘Your kindness is admirable, Gregory,’ said Mycroft, his voice purring and silky. ‘I am obliged to honour it.’ 

Greg sighed. ‘You’re not. You’re really, really not.’ 

‘But I am going to,’ Mycroft retorted, getting to his feet. Greg handed him back the note, before getting to his feet, himself. 

Greg looked down at his feet, even as he knew Mycroft’s eyes were trained on him. ‘Thank you,’ Greg said. ‘For what it’s worth, I mean.’ 

‘You do not need to continually thank me, Gregory,’ said Mycroft, softly. Greg looked up at the ginger, who was smirking, gently. Greg grinned, wryly. 

‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘I do. ‘Cause you keep doing things for me that go against your better judgement.’ 

‘I am continually finding that you have the ability to make me go against a great deal of my better judgement. Whether or not that will end up working out is another matter entirely, and a matter I am not particularly inclined to dress at any point soon.’ Mycroft admitted, quietly. 

Greg looked up at him.

Now. Right now. 

This was the moment, where Greg was certain, had they not been in the middle of a fight to the death, Greg would have kissed him. He would have kissed the other boy; this genius with a logical, beautiful, brilliant mind. 

But they were in the middle of a fight to the death. They were all clinging to life with both hands, but in the end, one of them, if not both of them, were going to die. So Greg took a deep breath, and looked away. 

It was perhaps the hardest thing he had ever done. 

There had been boys before. Other boys, younger ones and older ones and ones the same age as himself. There were others with bright hair and stark eyes who had interested Greg, but never as much as Mycroft. 

Mycroft’s voice and mind and heart were perfect for Greg. Everything he wanted in another solidified in human form and he couldn’t touch. Mycroft sat just beyond his reach, by virtue of their situation, and it was breaking Greg’s heart. 

It seemed like there were a lot of things recently that stood to break Greg’s heart. 

Greg looked down, and shuffled his feet. 

In front of him, Mycroft solidified his stance, holding his rapier more tightly and straightening his posture. Greg could _feel_ the moment those silvery-grey eyes slid away from him, forcibly. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. 

‘We do not appear to have much to go on,’ he murmured. ‘The only thing I have are is this bracelet and the note.’ 

‘That’s not much, at all.’ Greg replied, looking out unseeingly at the buildings around them, their crumbling facades woven through with vines. 

‘However…’ Mycroft had furrowed his brow, peering closely at the note that he held in his grasp.

‘You’ve seen something?’ asked Greg, excitedly, standing closer to Mycroft and looking over his shoulder. 

‘It is not much,’ Mycroft said, ‘But I believe that this stationery, it comes from a place that James and I visited earlier in the Games. A slightly run-down office building, but it did have paper and pens there.’ 

‘Maybe that’s where he is, then?’ 

‘Almost certainly not,’ Mycroft snorted. ‘It is a plant. I believe that is where he has set up the first part of the puzzle.’ 

‘Then what are we waiting for?’ asked Greg, slightly playfully. ‘Let’s go!’ 

***

The plan Mycroft led him to was just like any of the other various run-down buildings around the place - decrepit, old and crumbling. Vines choked up the window frames, bare of glass, and the front entrance was covered in moss. Weeds sprouted up through the concrete, and a tree stood out the front, clearly destroying what had once been a manicured lawn. 

‘This is it?’ asked Greg, looking up at the building, dubiously. ‘Why did you come here?’ 

‘There was a girl who escaped the Clock Tower on the first day. We followed her trail and found her here.’ 

‘Ah,’ Greg said, softly. He didn’t want to go into that - didn’t really want to ask Mycroft if he had been the one to kill the girl, or if Moriarty had done it.

‘Come along, Gregory,’ Mycroft said, shortly, leading him into the building.

From the inside, overturned, rotted wooden desks littered the floor of the lobby, as if they had been dumped there by a ransacker. An elevator shaft stood open and empty on the far end, and next to it, the door for an emergency exit. Mycroft made a beeline for that, leaving Greg to do nothing but follow in the other Tribute’s wake. 

The door creaked open without much protest, revealing a dusty, dim staircase that led up two floors, and then abruptly crumbled away. The sky was just a little further up, where the building had finally given up the ghost and become a ruin. 

‘This way,’ murmured Mycroft, leading up to the second floor, and then pushing open a door that was hanging off it’s hinges. 

Various bits of plant life and things were dumped around the place, as well as crumbling pillars, overturned desks and various other bits and pieces of an office gone to seed. In the centre of the room, a small circle had been cleared, and a desk stood in the centre like some sort of temple. It had clearly been set up, and recently, too. 

As Greg stepped closer, he saw a small canister was sitting on top, and a piece of folded paper like the one that had been in the broken trap earlier in the day. Mycroft fished the piece of paper from on top of the canister delicately, unfolding it with the tips of his fingers as if afraid it might bite him. 

Greg peered over the taller Career’s shoulder, to read what the note said. 

_Congratulations, you found the first clue. Then again, it wasn’t particularly difficult for you, was it, Iceman?_

_My next clue is inside the canister. But this isn’t going to be a treasure hunt, dear Tactician. This is going to be much more fun._

Mycroft placed the note in his pocket, and then took a look at the canister. 

‘Gregory,’ Mycroft said, softly, ‘I believe I know what is inside the canister. Well, one part of it, anyway. When I say run, you must run. I do not know what the clue is that James has left for me, but I do know it will not be alone. Do you understand me?’ 

‘Of course,’ Greg replied, immediately, nodding frantically to drive the point home. Mycroft nodded, and then approached the canister on the desk warily. 

Clicking it open, Greg shuffled closer for a look, just in time to hear the beeping that began to flood the room. 

Mycroft’s eyes widened, and he reached out a hand to grasp something small that Greg didn’t quite catch a glimpse of inside the canister, and then turned to Greg, grabbing his hand. 

‘We have to run, now!’ Mycroft insisted, taking off not towards the stairs, but towards the nearest window. 

‘Wait, what?’ asked Greg, but followed along with Mycroft anyway. He trusted the Career, as foolish as it may be. 

Mycroft didn’t deign to reply, just pushed Greg through the open window and out onto the ledge, following quickly behind. Greg could hear the beeping of the canister behind them, even as held onto Mycroft’s hand with everything in him. 

‘We have to jump, Gregory,’ Mycroft instructed, barely a moment before the long-limbed Career himself leapt from the ledge. Greg was ashamed to admit he screamed, even as he saw Mycroft land easily on the asphalt, not so far below. ‘Jump!’

And Greg jumped. He leapt off the building, sailing towards the hard asphalt. When he hit, pain rocketed up his spine, and he rolled to absorb some of it, to minimal success. ‘Fuck,’ he swore, wincing, even as Mycroft once more grabbed his hand, lifting him to his feet effortlessly, before tugging Greg into the bushes without a word of warning. 

Pain shot through Greg’s ankle, and every part of himself protested, even as Mycroft moved faster and faster, weaving around bushes. 

Then, behind them, the building they had just vacated erupted into a ball of fire and sparks, black smoke spiralling towards the sky, and the smell of combustion spiralled through the air, making Greg want to retch and wheeze. 

Suddenly, the force of the explosion hit them, and Greg was thrown forwards, right into Mycroft, who only just managed to turn and catch him before being bowled over himself. Tightly closing his eyes, Greg pressed his face into the warm body underneath him, refusing to inhale that scent for fear of losing all control he had whatsoever. 

Mycroft was panting against his ear, as the roar of the explosion settled behind them. Slowly, the sound died away, until there was just the quiet crackle and pop of breaking down scaffolding and concrete.

‘Are you alright?’ asked Mycroft.

‘Fine,’ replied Greg, slightly breathless. Sighing, he pushed off Mycroft’s chest, determined to immediately forget the hard planes of the pectorals under his fingers. He held out a hand to help the other Tribute up, which Mycroft took with a nod of thanks. 

Their blades had been tossed to the side, and Greg went and fished his from the floor, dusting off some of the clumps of dirt that had gathered on it. He turned back to Mycroft to see that the Career had a furrowed brow, focused and evaluative, contemplating something. 

‘What is it?’ asked Greg. Mycroft didn’t reply, instead pushing past Greg back in the direction of the explosion. Stepping through the bush, the tall ginger paced out to the line between the greenery and the blackened, scorched, warm earth left behind by the explosion, and resulting fire. 

As he watched, Mycroft knelt down onto the ground, and dug out a small sample of the scorched, blackened dirt, before letting it fall through his fingers. His slate eyes were focused on the dirt, and Greg stooped to have a closer look, see if he had missed something himself. 

‘What’s wrong?’ 

Mycroft shook his head, getting to his feet. ‘James is making a statement.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Greg, confusion lowering his brow. 

‘Where did he get the explosives?’ questioned Mycroft. 

‘The same place that those explosives under the pile yesterday were from?’

Mycroft hummed. ‘Gregory, _I_ put those there.’ 

‘What, really?’ Greg stopped looking over at Mycroft with a raised brow. 

‘Yes,’ Mycroft nodded, rubbing a hand over his chin. ‘I planted them there. I knew you would attempt to set them on fire, soon after you “rescued” Suzie.’ 

‘How did you know?’

Mycroft just looked at him, and raised a brow, as if he had asked a particularly stupid question. Greg looked away. 

‘Right, sorry,’ he muttered. ‘But if you were the one who planted them, where did you get them from?’ 

‘I dug them out of the ground near the starting positions,’ replied Mycroft, shrugging. ‘But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that this was not only a clue. This was a specific message, Gregory, don’t you see?’

Mycroft seemed fairly aggrieved, and Greg reached out a hand to lay it on the agitated genius’s shoulder, only to be shoved off with a snort. Raising his hands in surrender, Greg took a step back, and scrubbed a hand through his grey hair, waiting patiently for Mycroft to continue. 

‘This… this is a message, Gregory. He knew I was going to assist you to blow up the supplies. Unlike Irene, he knew that I was going to betray them. He knew I was on your side all along. It is a message, Gregory.’ 

‘That… that seems like it’s a little far-fetched, doesn’t it?’

Mycroft let out a low, wry chuckle. ‘You do not know James the way I do. Everything he does has a meaning, a purpose. His every action has motivation upon motivation upon motivation. He did not have time to set this up last night. He has been planning this since the beginning, I suspect.’ 

Greg was quiet. He didn’t know what to say. It was all too complicated for him, he decided. Greg was a simple person, he knew that. He was a simple guy with quite simple motivations. He didn’t really understand all this complex stuff. ‘You can outsmart him,’ was all Greg said, but he said it with a determination in his voice. That was his decision, and Mycroft looked over at him with a certain curiosity in those grey eyes. 

‘You certainly sound sure of me,’ he said, softly. 

‘I am,’ shrugged Greg. ‘You’ve gotten this far, haven’t you?’ 

‘So have you.’ 

‘I did it with dumb luck and not a small bit of help from you,’ Greg muttered, a little bitterly. ‘If it wasn’t for you and your strange reasons for keeping me alive, which I still don’t understand, by the way, then I’d definitely be dead.’ 

There was silence. Mycroft didn’t make any indication of refuting or agreeing with his claim. Greg rubbed another hand through his silvering hair roughly. 

‘So,’ Greg tried, after a moment. ‘What was the clue? Where are we going, now?’ 

‘This,’ replied Mycroft, holding up a swimsuit. Greg furrowed his brow. ‘But, I believe, a more important question is whether we should continue. There is only around an hour and a half until the tide has risen too high to take the land bridge, and I do not believe it is a particularly good idea to swim. We can leave now, Gregory.’ 

‘But if we leave, will that girl die?’ 

Mycroft didn’t reply. Greg had had about enough of the Career not answering his question, and his brows dropped, angrily, fists balling at his sides. ‘Answer the fucking question, Mycroft.’ 

Mycroft looked up at him, eyes narrowed. For a moment, Greg was certain the Career was going to fight him on it, but no. Instead, Mycroft just sighed, and ran a hand through his own hair, and over his slightly stubbly chin. 

‘It is a distinct possibility, yes.’ 

‘Then we keep going, Mycroft,’ Greg said. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask. I know it is. But… I don’t want anyone else having to go through that, Mycroft. I…’ 

It suddenly dawned on Greg what he was asking of Mycroft. He was asking an intensely logical individual to go against his logic for the sake of sentiment. Letting out an heal of air, Greg decided to just be silent. 

Mycroft inclined his head. ‘If that is truly what you want, Gregory, then we shall continue. But… understand that while I do this willingly, I do not believe it the best decision. What would be best is if we turn back, cross back to the tower and not leave.’ 

‘I know,’ Greg said, quietly. ‘Believe me, I do. But please… help me?’ 

‘Of course,’ murmured Mycroft, reaching out to lay a hand on Greg’s shoulder. Greg didn’t shove him off. ‘Without question.’ 

Greg gazed at Mycroft, at the heat in Mycroft’s eyes. Those grey eyes were a play of predatory intent, interest and evaluation. It was mesmerising, and Greg knew he was swaying towards Mycroft an instant before he righted himself. Blinking, he shook his head, and rapidly searched for something to say. 

‘Wha… what’s the swimsuit mean, then?’ he asked, rapidly. ‘Does it mean we have to go back to the shore?’ 

‘No,’ replied Mycroft softly. ‘It is chlorinated, and recently, too. That means an indoor pool. Somewhere in the northern region of the Arena, by the dust the piece is coated in.’ 

‘An indoor pool?’ 

‘Mm,’ hummed Mycroft. ‘When this city was still alive, citizens would go for leisure or fun.’ 

‘Oh,’ Greg murmured. ‘Instead of just going to the beach?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mycroft. ‘Not many lived by the beach. I do not believe there is a beach nearby, anyway. Aside from the flooding in the north west, of course.’ 

‘You know where we are?’ asked Greg.

Mycroft didn’t reply, just turned and took up his rapier, sticking the swimsuit into a pocket. ‘Come along. We cannot be late.’

***

The next building Greg was led to was a larger warehouse, in the suburban region of the Arena. Greg was quiet. He had the horrible feeling of being led on a goose chase around the place. They had been walking for some time, and now Mycroft had estimated there was only half an hour until the land bridge closed up again. 

This took the cake as one of the stupidest things Greg had ever done. Period. 

‘Alright?’ he asked Mycroft, briefly, after a moment. Mycroft paused, and looked over at Greg, inclining his head. 

‘I am fine,’ replied the Career, through tight lips. Greg shook his head. 

‘Lead on then, I suppose.’

Mycroft inclined his head, again, before pushing through the doors hanging off their hinges, and worn through with reeds. 

Greg stepped through after him, sticking close behind the other Tribute. The place smelt of damp and mildew, and the chemical smell of chlorine. It insinuated itself into Greg’s nose, making him feel more than a little ill. 

The hallway they were in was damp and dark, and water was dripping down from the ceiling onto Greg’s head. He had to resist the urge to shudder, and move closer to Mycroft than was social acceptable. 

Then, the hallway opened up into a more spacious, open area, with a roof that was fallen away and empty. It had clearly been a glass roof of some sort, arched and delicate, but now the ceiling was entirely gone, leaving the sun to shine right down into the space. There was a pool in the centre of the room, full of damp, dark green, cloudy water. 

‘Well, this is a turn up, isn’t it?’ 


	24. Blood

Greg took a sharp breath, even as Mycroft held out an arm and pushed Greg behind him. Greg huffed out a breath, and moved over to the side to look around. At the other end of the pool stood a little girl, her eyes wide and tears streaming down her face. 

‘That’s her, isn’t it?’ Greg hissed. ‘She’s the District Eight girl.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mycroft, softly. ‘She is.’ 

‘You were taking so long. I thought you’d forgotten this stupid little bitch.’ 

The words coming out of the girl’s mouth were so incongruous that Greg had to fight off a wave of nausea. 

‘Stop being a coward, _Jim,’_ Mycroft hissed. ‘Speak to us with your own voice.’ 

The girl at the other end of the pool was silent. Upon closer look, Greg could see she had a small piece of paper in her hand that she was reading off of. Her long, brown hair was matted and damp, and the clothes she wore were torn and revealed large cuts and bruises across her pale skin. 

Her large, round, green eyes were astonishing, sitting in a small, haggard face that Greg knew was going to haunt him. She looked like death warmed up, and Greg didn’t even have to ask Mycroft to know that someone had done something terrible to this tiny little girl. 

There were so many young ones in the Games. It was a terrible fate for anyone. But so many little girls had to lose their lives for the pleasure of the Capitol. It had been going on for years and likely wasn’t going to stop any time soon. 

This was the way things were, and it made Greg sick. To think that before, he hadn’t spoken out, hadn’t rallied others to do something. He had just sat there, a symbol of what was wrong in the world, a bystander, watching little girls and boys with their whole lives ahead of them get slaughtered. 

Greg reached out a hand, and took Mycroft’s long fingers in his own, squeezing tightly. Mycroft tensed, a moment, hesitating, before squeezing back, briefly. 

‘Aww, isn’t that sweet,’ sang a voice, from the far side of the pool. ‘The Iceman and the Silver Knight. How _adorable._ ’ 

‘James,’ said Mycroft, softly. ‘What do you want?’ 

Moriarty finally stepped out from the shadows, into the light. Dramatically. ‘Stop asking stupid questions, Mycroft. We both know there’s no _point_.’

Greg finally stepped up beside Mycroft, as a show of strength. 

‘So, solve the puzzle.’ 

‘Why?’ Mycroft shot back. ‘Only yourself and Irene are here. If I leave now, with Gregory, then there is no consequence.’ 

‘Oh, did I forget?’ Moriarty tapped his chin, almost comically. ‘Well, let me give you some context.’ 

He gestured to the little girl from District Eight, who opened her jacket to reveal she had an explosive, just like the one that had been in the first building, tied to her chest with rope. The girl herself had tears pouring down her face, and was whimpering, quietly. 

Greg wanted nothing more than to go to the girl. To go to her and to hold her hands and help her. To quiet her tears. But Mycroft’s hand was a vice around his own, even as Greg raised his other hand to his mouth to muffle a gasp of horror. 

‘Solve the problem, Mycroft. Solve it for your precious Silver Knight.’ 

Mycroft tightened his hand around Greg’s, a moment before the taller Tribute turned and looked at Greg, a question in his eyes. Those slate eye bored into Greg’s, waiting for an answer. 

Mycroft was asking him if they could leave. If they could walk out of here, without this little girl, condemn her to her fate, for the sake of their safety. If they didn’t, then there was no chance Moriarty was actually going to let them leave. No chance in high hell. 

Someone was going to die. Not just because Moriarty was an evil little bastard, but because the Gamemakers lived for this drama. It made good television, that was the reality of it. 

Greg took a breath, and let it out again. 

He knew what this was going to entail. But that little girl had just as much of a right to life as Greg did. As much as Moriarty, or Mycroft or Irene. She deserved a chance, and Moriarty was going to strip that chance from her. 

Mycroft seemed to realise what Greg was asking of _him,_ in return. Silently Mycroft looked down, squeezed their hands, then dropped Greg’s hand in favour of stepping forwards, a little closer around the edge of the pool. 

‘This puzzle. What do I get if I win?’ 

‘You get to walk out of here, alive, with that little girl,’ Moriarty shrugged, and frowned. ‘I would have thought that was fairly obvious.’ 

‘Very well,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘Let the games begin. What is your little puzzle then, James?’ 

‘You already know,’ sang Moriarty, his voice horrible and lilting. ‘Look, and think.’ 

Mycroft let out a sigh of realisation, pulling the swimsuit from his pocket. ‘This, then.’ 

‘Oh, very good, pet,’ said Moriarty, in the same sort of sickly sweet tone that Greg used to talk to Gladstone. ‘We might still have a bit of fun, yet.’ 

Mycroft was staring intently at the swimsuit, as if it held the keys to the universe, and the answers to all of life’s questions. Tension ran thick in the air, and Greg felt like it could have been cut through with a knife. It was so thick it rooted Greg to one spot, unable to move or think for it. Mycroft’s breaths in the air were what Greg chose to focus on, rather than the sounds of the girl’s whimpering, and Moriarty’s mocking humming. 

He was humming an upbeat tune, a song Greg had heard briefly, once, in the black market back in District Ten, at a small shop that peddled relics of Before. Stayin’ Alive, a rather mocking song in the context. 

‘Tick tock, on the clock, Mycroft,’ hummed Moriarty. 

‘Why are you doing this?!’ demanded Greg, stepping forward, his left fist balled at his side, and his sword tense in his hand. 

‘Gregory,’ said Mycroft lowly. 

‘Oh, no, let your pet speak, Mycroft darling. I’d love to hear what the little dog has to bark.’ 

‘Why are you doing this, Moriarty?’ asked Greg, again. ‘Why not just… I don’t know.’ 

‘I was bored,’ shrugged Moriarty. ‘And Mycroft was being so _boring,_ sitting up on his ivory tower and fucking you.’ 

Greg went bright red, and was about to take another step forward, before he thought the better of it. Irene had baited him before. He wasn’t going to fall for the same trick twice. 

Greg may be a bit slow, but he did learn. 

Taking a slow, calming breath, he stepped back. ‘What have you got?’ he asked Mycroft, quietly. 

Mycroft just hummed, turning the swimsuit this way and that, examining it carefully for something. Greg stood by his side, stoic and silent, trying not to let the thoughts in. That was certainly easier said than done. 

‘There’s something,’ whispered Mycroft, looking around the room, again. ‘Something here.’ 

‘Hurry up, Mycroft,’ whined Moriarty, as if he was a five year old child. ‘I’m bored. When I get bored I get angry, darling. And when I’m angry, I get an itchy trigger finger. You know that.’ 

Mycroft looked up at Moriarty, sharply, his eyes stormy. Moriarty giggled, a high pitched, creepy thing that made Greg’s bones rattle. ‘Gregory has a point, _Jim._ Why are you doing this? It is not for your own benefit, no. Your benefit would have been to hole up somewhere and lick your wounds before hunting me. Wait me out, rather than confront me as you are.’ 

‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Moriarty tutted, waving his finger. ‘That’s not the rules, Mycroft. You have to follow the rules.’ 

‘Why?’ demanded Mycroft. ‘Rules are rather dull, don’t you think?’

Moriarty just threw his head back, and laughed. ‘Oh _darling_ , you don’t understand. The rules aren’t to help _me._ The rules are to help _you.’_ Slowly, Moriarty stepped closer and closer to the District Eight girl, who shied away from his touch as if he had poison under his fingers. Which was a distinct possibility for the slimy bastard. 

‘What are you doing?!’ demanded Greg, taking a sharp step forwards, holding out a hand in an attempt to stop Moriarty from doing anything. Moriarty didn’t reply, just stalking closer and closer to the girl, who was rooted in place for fear of being blown to the heavens. Moriarty reached out a hand, shooting it out to grab onto the girl’s chin. 

The girl screamed, and Greg took another aborted step forwards, his sword rising. 

‘She is quite a beauty, isn’t she, Silver Knight?’ hissed Moriarty, snake-like in his black eyes and black hair. Those eyes tracked over the girl’s face, before whipping around to focus on Greg, drag up and down his body. It made Greg feel dirty, and made him want to take a wash, go and stand under hot water and scrub his body until he was raw and pink and new. He took another aborted step forwards. 

Greg choked, and looked back at Mycroft, desperately. Mycroft was raking his eyes over the swimsuit and the room and then back to the swimsuit again, clearly running out of ideas hard and fast. 

Mycroft’s brow was furrowed, his eyes stormy and grey, roiling with something unnameable Greg didn’t really want to think about. 

‘Hurry up, dear Iceman. We don’t have all day,’ Moriarty tapped his chin, briefly. ‘Well, you don’t, anyway.’

Greg choked, biting his lip hard to resist the urge to move forwards and strike Moriarty down, jam a sword right through his fucking face. 

The girl, her chin still gripped in Moriarty’s talons, was whimpering and crying, her nose running and her eyes blurry. Her entire body was shaking with fear, her knees knocking, and Greg had no idea how she was still standing. A testament not only to her strength, but her resilience and courage. 

Greg smiled at her, softly and encouragingly. 

She didn’t seem to see him. 

‘Oh, this is just so _boring!’_ Moriarty exclaimed. ‘Hurry it along, Mycroft. Before I get antsy.’ 

‘Well, if you’re that bored,’ spat Greg, ‘Just leave.’ 

Moriarty grinned a shark-like grin. ‘Well, if you won’t hurry up, Mycroft, dear, I’ll give you a little more… _incentive._ ’

Drawing the whip out from where he had had it stashed behind him, Moriarty wound the snake-like tendril around the girl’s neck. 

The District Eight Tribute whimpered, her tears picking up, and hiccuping sobs beginning to emanate from her chest. Moriarty tightened the noose around her neck, tighter and tighter until she clearly couldn’t breathe, and then held it. 

Greg let out a low, harsh, angry breath, taking up his sword and stepping forwards. ‘Let her go, Moriarty.’

‘Mmm… well… can’t have her die too soon, I suppose.’ Moriarty released the whip, and let the girl fall to the floor, panting out breath after breath after breath. Her eyes were shimmering with tears and her entire frame was shaking. 

She looked small, and pathetic, her body beaten and broken. On the floor, Greg could see her jacket had entirely been torn through, and her back was pockmarked with scabs and sores.

It was horrifying. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg whispered, desperately, turning back to the other Tribute. Mycroft’s eyes were focused, stormy, and angry. Greg could see a thousand things in the angry posture and curve that the Career’s spine took. Those long fingers were locked around the swimsuit in a death grip. 

Over on the other side of the pool, the girl stumbled and struggled back to her feet, her eyes completely glassy, now. It was a look Greg had seen before, on the kids who got run over by carts on the main street back in District Ten. The ones with broken bones and internal bleeding who were in so much pain that they no longer really understood to not be in pain. 

It was a horrific thing to see. 

Moriarty just grinned, his smile a horrible thing in and of itself. It was a dark, twisted thing that made Greg want to retch. It reminded Greg of a tear in skin, of the teeth of prairie dogs ripping through the flesh of a cow, hunted down over the plains. It was the beak of a vulture, splitting apart maggot-ridden flesh. 

‘Tick tock, Mycroft,’ he hissed, again, before tightening the whip around the girl’s neck once more. ‘You understand, don’t you? You understand why I am doing this? You see my predicament?’ 

‘I am not like you,’ said Mycroft. ‘I do not pretend to know your motivations.’ 

Moriarty released the girl, let her gasp for breath again. ‘Oh, but you are, handsome Iceman. You are like me. You are a spider in your own web, you know it. You stand above me, stand to judge me for my actions, but you… oh…’ 

The bastard sighed in almost orgasmic bliss. 

‘Have you told him the truth yet? Your pretty little Silver Knight, all dolled up in fire and anger and passion? No? Pity.’ 

‘You used the explosives to tell me you had this planned from the beginning. You knew,’ said Mycroft, quietly, ‘You know these Games are far more, don’t you?’ 

‘Uh uh, Mycroft,’ Moriarty tutted. ‘Remember the rules? I let you off the first time, but not this time. Focus on the task at hand, darling.’ 

Then, Moriarty raised the whip over his head, and brought it down to land on the girl’s thigh. 

The scream that resulted pierced Greg’s eardrums, cutting right through down to the bone. It was horrible, a horrible, horrible thing of blood and death and desperation, such fear bottled in a single sound that Greg couldn’t take it. 

‘Stop!’ he yelled, charging forwards, the point of his sword out. 

Moriarty turned, and like the lashing of a snake in the grass, he flung out the metal pointed tip of his whip. Before Greg was even within a metre of the black haired Career, the wet slice of metal through flesh stopped him in his tracks. 

The whip cut him straight up his torso, a diagonal rip of flesh from his left hip to his right shoulder, deep enough to immediately flow blood, and cause Greg to reel back in pain. Moriarty let out a low laugh. 

‘I did warn you,’ he murmured, softly. 

Greg hit the broken tiles hard, his head cracking painfully against the ground, and hot blood trickling from the gaping wound across his chest. His shirt was torn, and blood was soaking into the material, causing a hot stain to spread. 

The girl screamed, her voice high pitched and shrill. 

Dazed, Greg leant his head back to see Mycroft, eyes angry and mouth in a thin line, raising his rapier over his head. 

‘Oh no, Mycroft. I wouldn’t,’ said Moriarty. ‘If you try it, you know I will kill him. Solve the puzzle.’ 

Mycroft was standing but a metre away. Greg wanted to reach for the other tribute badly, wanted to reach out a hand and touch Mycroft’s foot or something, but he couldn’t move. Pinned down by the weight of the wound on his chest, Greg could barely twitch. 

Blood was oozing from his chest. 

‘Enough of this, James,’ said Mycroft, softly. ‘People are going to die. People have died.’ 

‘That’s what people DO!’ Moriarty practically screamed. ‘This is the Hunger Games! This is the Hunger Games and I intend to win. That entails killing you all. But that’s no fun. At least I’m making it entertaining.’ 

Mycroft let out a low sigh, of realisation. ‘Oh,’ he murmured. ‘I see. You found this little puzzle, didn’t you, James. And you want me to solve it, to validate what you found.’ 

Moriarty didn’t reply. 

‘This swimsuit belonged to one of the citizens of this city. Before,’ Mycroft went on. ‘But there are flecks of skin inside the suit. Female cut, so a woman. The flecks of skin indicate that she had quite severe eczema, or dermatitis, backed up by the slight spotting. But why bother pointing this out? It is not a particularly interesting fact, many people have the issue. No, you drew this to my attention for a different reason. 

‘This girl died. She died in this pool, from some sort of disease.

‘The city was abandoned Before. It wasn’t abandoned due to the Dark Days, but due to a quarantine.’ 

‘Very good,’ sang Moriarty. ‘But not good enough to save your precious Knight and his precious sentimentality. Look harder.’ 

Greg groaned. The pain from his cut was overwhelming, blurring a great deal of the details together, making it difficult to function. 

‘The Capitol set the Arena up here for a reason. There is a reason that this year, the Arena is a city, broken down and choked up, riddled with diseases. This girl… she adds to it. Because the disease that took this city out was not a nature-borne disease.

‘No, this disease was man-made. A sudden death, accompanied by an increase in eczema activity, presence of blood and broken stitching in the swimsuit indicating swelling, and the fact that the Arena is currently safe, as no Tribute has died of illness, indicates the disease was man-made, and once the city had been abandoned by humans, the disease no longer had a vector, and died out.’ 

Moriarty clapped, delighted. ‘Oh, very good, darling. Brilliant, really.’ 

‘I will be leaving now,’ Mycroft said, with finality, stepping forwards to Greg. He assisted Greg to his feet, and Greg leaned agains the pillar of the other Tribute heavily, his body feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds. ‘And I will be taking _her_ with me.’ 

As if in response, the District Eight girl stumbled a little, shock and hope causing her knees to knock together. 

Moriarty threw his head back, and laughed. ‘Oh, darling, you can take her with you, but I don’t think you would want to.’ 

‘What… what do you mean?’ panted Greg, speaking for the first time. It made every bone in his body hurt, his chest ache, and the edges of the cut on his chest feel raw and hot. 

‘How would I be able to choose when to detonate the explosives? That isn’t how they work, Mycroft. You know that. They go off on impact with something. Irene helped me set off the first one. And this little girl, well, she is getting quite hot, isn’t she?’

Greg looked up at Mycroft, trying to understand what it was that Moriarty was saying. Mycroft’s slate eyes were wide in horror, and he grasped Greg around the waist, and quickly spun him, heading for the way they had come in. 

‘No… no…’ croaked Greg hoarsely. ‘We can’t leave her, we can’t…’ 

‘Gregory, there is nothing we can do for her. There was never anything we could have done for her,’ said Mycroft lowly. 

‘He’s right, you know, pretty little Silver Knight. Run along to your tin can, darlings. We are going to have so much more fun.’ Greg glanced back, in time to hear a beeping beginning on the girl’s chest, and the sound of the girl beginning to cry and sob, collapsing to the floor in a heap. Moriarty was gone, melting back into the shadows. 

Mycroft was pulling Greg out the door, and Greg was feeling hazy, woozy from the blood loss. ‘Mycroft… Mycroft… gotta stop… too tired… please…’ 

‘No Gregory,’ said Mycroft, firmly but not unkindly. ‘We have to keep going. We have to.’ 

Greg was dragged back into the trees, back into the alleys between buildings, back into the maze of endless stones and broken reminders of Before. 

Then, just as before, there was a thunderous roar from behind them, and a wave of heat washed over them both. The force made Greg stumble, but Mycroft fought to keep them both upright, pressing Greg into the nearest building, and holding him there, tightly. Mycroft held their bodies against one another, heat from Greg literally bleeding onto Mycroft. 

Greg’s eyes were a little hazy now, and he felt dizzy, as if he hadn’t slept in three days. His vision was beginning to tunnel, and black spots were dancing around the field of his vision. 

Mycroft leaned back and looked at Greg. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg whispered. ‘Please. Want you… please…’ 

The sound of a cannon rocketed over the Arena. 

***

‘John?!’ Sally called out, rushing through the back door after the younger boy. ‘John?! Are you alright?’

John didn’t reply, just hurrying off towards the oak at the side of the house, where the rope swing was located, tied to a mid height branch and swinging gently in the breeze. John latched onto the rope, and shimmied up it as only a nine year old boy could do, sequestering himself up in the branches. 

Sally sighed, and stood underneath the tree, looking up into the fronds. 

‘What’s wrong?’ she called up to him. John didn’t reply, just scrambled a little higher in the branches. He had been doing this a fair amount recently - taking off out of the house and into the trees, avoiding any and all conversation. 

‘Sal,’ said Maya, softly, laying a hand on Sally’s shoulder. ‘Come on. Just leave it.’ 

Sally looked over at her girlfriend, desperately. ‘I don’t want to,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to leave him out here. Greg asked _me_ to take care of John. I owe it to him to make sure John’s okay.’ 

‘Sal,’ repeated Maya, taking Sally by the hand and tugging her towards the open door. ‘Come on. Let’s go inside. I think we should just leave him for now.’ 

Sally looked at Maya, entirely uncertain. ‘Are you sure?’ 

‘Yes,’ murmured Maya. ‘Trust me?’ 

‘Always,’ Sally smiled, taking Maya’s hand and squeezing lightly. Maya smiled, looking down at their joined hands and blushing. ‘Hungry?’ 

‘I’m hungry!’ Lottie piped up, from the couch. ‘And I don’t want to watch the Games anymore. Can we watch something else?’ 

Sally looked over at the screen, and then nearly collapsed laughing. Molly chuckled, and Maya giggled, as well. On screen, Greg was being held like the princess after she’d been rescued from the tower, collapsed in Mycroft’s arms. 

The District One Career himself had a stoic expression on his face, as he wound through buildings and between trees and over bushes. The hilt of the Tribute’s wickedly sharp, deadly rapier was over his right shoulder, and Greg’s own sword over his left. 

‘He’s quite the damsel in distress,’ laughed Molly, pointing at the screen. Lottie giggled. 

‘When Greg gets home,’ laughed Alex, ‘I’m gonna remind him of this.’ 

That put a damper on the moods of the older three girls, but Lottie and Alex both snorted. Sally sighed, and looked down at her hands. Maya coughed, awkwardly, and moved over into Greg’s tiny kitchen, rifling through the pantry. 

Molly pushed other feet, fiddling with her brown hair. Tossing it away from her eyes, she nodded decisively, and walked into the kitchen to help Maya. Lottie and Alex were still watching what was happening on screen, as Greg’s unconscious form was lugged off. 

_‘…is interesting, isn’t it Caesar?’_ Slowly, the voices of the hosts filtered into Sally’s head. _‘I don’t think that we’ve seen this before, a District Ten Tribute not only making it this far in the Games, but being assisted by a District One Tribute.’_

_‘Yes. It is no secret that the District One and Two Tributes tend to last the longest and have the greatest chance at winning, for some reason.’_ Sally snorted at that. Yeah. Some reason. It wasn’t like they were trained, or anything. Bloody idiots. _‘Mycroft Holmes, ladies and gentlemen, for those who are just tuning in, has recently saved Greg Lestrade, our favourite Silver Knight, from Irene Adler, his fellow District One Tribute.’_

_‘Mm,’_ hummed Claudius. _‘Irene Adler, the female Tribute from District One has certainly been an interesting player. After the death of Janine Hawkins, the female Tribute from District Two, she is the only female left in the group formed by the Tributes from Districts One and Two.’_

‘She kinda scares me,’ said Alex, from where he was curled up on the couch under a blanket. Sally snorted. 

‘She is a bit scary, isn’t she,’ Sally acknowledged, sitting down on the couch beside Alex. ‘She has that kinda look about her, like she would stab someone if she got the chance.’ 

‘She has,’ Lottie piped up, from the other end of the couch. 

‘Hey, Lottie, are you hungry?!’ called Maya, from the kitchen. Charlotte sprung up, her brown curls bouncing, and walked over into the kitchen to get something to eat. The three girls began a conversation, loudly, that Sally tuned out, turning to Alex and pulling the younger boy to her side, pressing a kiss to his short, dense curls. 

‘Alright?’ 

‘Yeah,’ murmured Alex. ‘I just… yeah.’ 

‘How’s your chest feeling?’ Sally asked her brother, rubbing a hand over Alex’s small, warm chest. 

‘Fine,’ he replied, quietly, looking away. ‘That stuff you got for me from the market really helped.’ 

‘That’s good,’ said Sally. They both fell into silence. 

Sally looked at the tele screen, where the cameras were now following Irene as she darted through the crumbling buildings. 

‘It’s funny, actually,’ Sally said, after a moment. ‘Greg actually gave me the money to buy it for you. The baker gave him three golds for a bunch of eggs Greg brought for him, and Greg gave me two of them. I used them to buy that cream for your chest.’ 

Alex let out a small whimper, which had Sally looking over at the younger boy. His eyes were welling with tears, and his face was scrunched up. Small fists bunched the blanket over his shoulders, gripping with white knuckles. 

‘Oh, what’s wrong?’ Sally reached out another arm, enfolding Alex in a hug. ‘What is it, Alex?’ 

‘This is my fault,’ whimpered Alex. ‘If I was just… If things had been different it wouldn’t be Greg having to go through that. It’s my fault that John’s all sad and won’t eat or sleep right, and Greg has to do all that stuff. I just… Greg shouldn’t have had to volunteer for me, it’s not fair. John _needs_ Greg. No one needs me like John needs Greg.’ 

‘Hey, hey, hey,’ cooed Sally, softly, squeezing Alex tightly against her chest. ‘ _I_ need you. You’re my baby brother. I made a promise to Dad to keep you safe. I know how you feel, Alex. Trust me. I feel guilty too, but Greg… he volunteered. He did something so brave to keep you alive, and I know it’s horrible with him gone, but it means I got to keep you.’ 

‘But that’s not fair,’ whispered Alex. ‘My life isn’t worth more than Greg’s.’ 

‘No one’s life is worth more than anyone else’s,’ said Sally. ‘That’s not right, not at all. But sometimes, life just isn’t fair. And people have to… they have to do what they think is right. Greg thought it was the right thing to save you, and I don’t disagree with him. Yeah, it’s awful, but he volunteered.’ 

‘I know,’ said Alex. ‘But I just… I just wish he didn’t have to go through all this stuff. I wish none of them had to.’ 

‘The Capitol does things… sometimes… that aren’t right. The Capitol isn’t fair. And It’s horrible. It makes me angry, Alex, that Suzie and Greg and all of them have to do that to one another.’ 

Alex sighed into Sally’s chest. ‘It makes me angry too,’ he confessed, quietly. His voice was shaking, as was the rest of his body. 

There was silence, interrupted by Alex’s sniffling snorts on Sally’s shoulder. 

‘I miss Greg,’ said Alex, quietly. ‘He was always the most fun to play games with. And he taught me how to milk the cows, and had running races with me and John when you and Lottie had to go to the market.’

Sally smiled. ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘And I miss Greg too. I don’t have anyone to help me with the sheep, and no one to go with me to market.’ 

‘I miss Greg too,’ said Lottie, from the doorway into the kitchen, holding a piece of rough bread in her left hand. ‘He used to give me breakfast in the morning on the way to school when I didn’t have any, and he always gave John a little extra food for lunch to give to me, as well. And he pushed me on the swing, and played hide and seek.’ 

Alex looked up at his sister, and smiled. ‘I remember,’ he said, softly. ‘I loved playing hide and seek with Greg.’ 

‘So did I,’ Molly grinned. ‘He always knew the best hiding spots.’ 

‘So that’s how you always beat us!’ yelped Lottie, looking over at Molly with betrayal. ‘Greg helped you hide, didn’t he?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Molly admitted, grinning. ‘He did help hide me. You never did find us, did you?’ 

‘No!’ said Alex, outraged. ‘It’s not fair. You cheat!’ 

‘It’s not cheating!’ said Molly. 

Sally looked over at Maya, who was also crowded in the doorway, and smiled, softly. The light hearted atmosphere had returned. Sure, it had been a little forced, but it was back. 

There was only so much time they had left. So much time until Greg was dead and then there wouldn’t be any smiled. Not any more. 

Sally had to admit she was dreading that day coming. Not just because she wanted Greg to stay alive, but because she wanted everything to be okay. None of them were going to be okay when Greg was dead.

None of them. 

Greg had worked his way into their lives and hearts, the bastard. Their memories of him would always sit in the corners of their hearts, and Sally hoped to all hell that she would never forget him. He deserved better than that. 

***

It was dark out when Sally finally looked at Maya, sitting on her lap with their arms wound around one another. Pillows and blankets adorned the floor, as Alex was curled into a little ball in a nest of his own making. Lottie was spread-eagled, next to Sam and Molly, who had decided to stay over this evening. 

‘Should I go outside?’ asked Sally, softly. ‘He has to be tired now. He needs to come inside.’ 

‘I don’t know,’ replied Maya, leaning forwards to press her forehead onto Sally’s. ‘I think that you should try coax him down, now. Just… if he doesn’t want to come, don’t force him to come.’ 

‘I think he’s going to ask,’ said Sally, quietly. ‘I don’t want to talk to him about that. I just… I wish things were different.’ 

‘We all do,’ said Maya. ‘I wish Greg could come home, just so I could learn from him a little. Know him a little better. He… he is… he means a lot to you all. I can see why.’ 

‘Greg was…. is…. was wonderful. He was.’ 

Maya grinned, ‘Not going to steal you away from me, is he?’ 

‘You don’t have anything to worry about, love,’ replied Sally, leaning up and giving her girlfriend a quick peck. ‘I love vaginas too much. And Greg’s a sword swallower, through and through.’ 

Maya giggled. ‘Really?’ 

Sally grinned, and nodded. ‘Oh yeah. That’s why I’m worried about his nibs and that Mycroft Holmes in an enclosed space together.’ 

‘Well, it did feel a little tense between them this evening, didn’t it?’ Sally smiled. 

‘It sure did. Needed to fan myself, a little there. I was certain Greg was going to kiss him at one point.’ 

‘Mmm,’ hummed Maya. ‘I think… I mean, I don’t know that much about him, but I think Greg’s not going to be that foolish. They are in the Hunger Games, after all. I think it would be a foolish thing. Bound to end in tragedy, you know?’ 

‘I suppose,’ Sally shrugged. ‘Though, Greg does do stupid things from time to time. Like volunteering. That was stupid. It was also brave, too, but I think that bit might have been an accident.’ 

Maya giggled, a motion Sally felt right through to her core. She couldn’t resist the urge to lean up and kiss Maya, a peck turning into something a little more passionate. Sally was about to suggest a move to somewhere a little more friendly to the odd frisk, but Maya pushed her off, sighing. 

‘You should go talk to John, now,’ she said. ‘He needs to come inside and have a sleep, and something to eat. And tell him Greg’s up and about now.’ 

‘Alright,’ Sally nodded. ‘What else should I say to him?’ 

‘Nothing,’ replied Maya. ‘I think… I think he’ll want to do the talking.’ 

‘Are you sure?’ 

Maya hummed, and nodded. ‘I think so. He’s quite sensitive, I think.’ 

‘He is,’ replied Sally. ‘Something which Greg gave him, I think.’ 

‘Greg pretty sensitive, too?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Sally said, smiling. ‘He always was… is… Oh, I don’t know anymore.’ 

‘Go,’ insisted Maya. ‘Get that boy back. For Greg.’

‘For Greg,’ Sally agreed. Sighing, she stretched out of her seat before walking out the door, quietly shutting it behind herself. Outside, the air was clear and cool, but Sally could see that on the horizon, a storm was brewing. More than one, really. 

There was a heaviness to the air, a sort of damp preparation for the storm to come. The cattle had been put away for the day, the chickens were all huddled in their small hutch. Sally’s sheep were gathered in the back of the barn, and Gladstone was curled on the front stoop. The tree was a dark shadow against the navy and grey backdrop of the sky, clouds blotting out the silvery stars.

Sally stepped over under the tree, holding the rope quietly and looking up. If she focused, she could make out the shadowy shape of John, curled into a small ball on the middle branches, his head in his knees. 

‘John?’ she called to the boy, softly as she could muster. ‘Can you come down? I think there’s gonna be a storm, and you need to eat.’ 

John didn’t reply, but he did shuffle around a bit, and look over the branch to where Sally was underneath him. Sally smiled, reassuringly. 

‘Come on, sweetheart. Come down. You know Greg wouldn’t like to see you live this.’ 

‘I know,’ John whispered, so quietly Sally thought she might have been mistaken in what she heard. ‘I want Greg back, Sally,’ he said, softly, a moment later. 

‘I want him back too,’ Sally said. ‘We all do. We were all just talking about it in the house about half an hour ago.’ 

‘I know,’ repeated John. ‘I heard you.’ 

There was a pause. 

‘I miss him,’ said John, quietly. ‘I miss going to bed and him reading me a story out of the book with the Silver Knight, and giving me hugs when I needed it and pushing me on the swings and showing me how to use a sword and helping me with homework. I want to go back to the way it was.’ 

‘I want that, too,’ said Sally. ‘We all want that. John… I wish I could do something. Make this all better.’ 

‘Greg’s not gonna come back, is he?’ asked John. Sally could see his tears, reflecting the diffused moonlight that shimmered through the clouds. 

Sally didn’t know how to reply. Would Greg come back? Probably not, no. But should she lie? 

No. 

She shook her head. ‘I don’t… I don’t think he is coming back,’ she said, sadly. ‘God, I wish it wasn’t true. I wish it wasn’t true with every fibre of my being, you have to believe me, John. But I just… I don’t think he is.’ 


	25. Falling

Mycroft was panting heavily by the time they reached the land bridge. The thing was almost entirely covered by water, now, and Greg realised that it would be up to their waists at some points - but they might still be able to make it. 

Cringing slightly at the thought of the salt water on his cut, Greg turned his head to look at Mycroft. Mycroft himself didn’t look much better for wear, with a small gash over his forehead, and haggard features. He looked like he had just run a marathon, and the usual composure on the other Tribute’s features was taking a hit. 

Greg took a deep breath, and leaned a little more onto Mycroft. The other Tribute bore it with barely a grimace. There was a grim expression on Mycroft’s face as they stepped forwards as one. The wound across Greg’s torso had dried, but was still weeping blood a little. The edges of Greg’s vision were entirely hazy and uncertain, and black spots had continually been dancing in his vision. 

He felt like he had been mauled by a lion. 

The edges of his wound were tight and hot, and he could feel a fever coming along, but put up with it as Mycroft tugged him towards the bridge. 

It got deeper and deeper as they stepped out across it, starting at his knees and travelling up his body. Greg could feel the cold in his very bones, aching and itching the edges of his cut. 

‘Are you alright, Gregory?’ asked Mycroft, looking over at him with worry creasing the corners of those slate grey eyes. 

Greg let out a low, wry chuckle. ‘Nope,’ he replied, the blood loss going to his head somewhat. ‘Everything hurts, and I’m dying.’ 

‘Don’t be dramatic,’ Mycroft murmured, tugging Greg along with him across the land bridge. ‘I do not particularly want to have to carry you again.’ 

‘Again? What do you mean again?’ 

‘How on earth do you think you got out to the tower in the first place?’ 

‘Oh that’s just great,’ Greg grumbled. ‘Brilliant.’ 

Mycroft sighed, and tugged Greg even deeper. The place they’d been staying was sitting only a hundred metres away. It couldn’t possibly be too far, could it? 

The water was up to Greg’s hips, now, and the shore was some way behind them. 

‘Mycroft,’ asked Greg, quietly. ‘Are you sure it’s safe to go back?’ 

‘What do you mean?’ Mycroft questioned. 

‘Where was Irene?’ Greg replied. ‘She wasn’t with Moriarty back at the pool. So where was she?’

Mycroft let out a low chuckle. ‘I am surprised it took you this long to ask. She was injured. When she fought me after killing Suzie, I injured her. She likely couldn’t do anything. And if she had crossed the land bridge, I would know.’ 

‘Oh,’ Greg replied, weakly. His head was spinning, and aching, and he leaned more heavily against Mycroft. Mycroft, for his part, didn’t protest, just stowing his rapier somewhere and then wrapping his other hand around Greg’s front, holding him against the taller Tribute’s side. 

‘We need to hurry,’ said Mycroft. ‘Soon we will no longer be able to cross. The water is getting deeper.’ 

‘Uh… huh…’ Greg mumbled, his face and mouth feeling a little numb from the cold. His cut wasn’t helping, the water now lapping against the very bottom of it, and sapping the warmth from his body. Mycroft tugged a little harder, pulling Greg along through the water. 

The sun was sitting at an angle in the sky, just to the west. It wasn’t enough to warm Greg up, though, and his teeth began to chatter. 

‘Wanna get out,’ Greg mumbled. ‘Please Mycroft, gotta get out of the water now.’ 

‘It is only a little longer, Gregory,’ Mycroft said, softly. 

The water _was_ beginning to recede, Greg realised. His cut was clear of the water, as it was lapping against his hips again. The rocky, crumbling concrete under his feet did seem a little unstable, and a little unsure, and Greg did stumble, but they made it. 

The water receded further and further until it was around Greg’s knees, and they were at the side of the leaning skyscraper. The door that they were meant to go through leant at an angle, and was partially flooded. Mycroft tugged Greg through without much fanfare, and splashed over to the stairs on the other side of the room. 

When they reached back up to the dry rooms, Mycroft immediately hurried Greg over to the sleeping bag, and helped him to lie down on it. 

‘Please remove your shirt, Gregory. I have to dress the wound,’ instructed Mycroft, before turning to walk into the run-down kitchen, through a door hanging off its hinges. Greg could hear him rummaging in the next room. 

As carefully as he could, Greg took his shirt off, wincing at the pressure it put on his wound. He had to peel it off the wound, where the blood had made the fabric sticky, and flakes of dried blood rained down on him when he pulled it over his head. ‘Shit,’ Greg swore, at the pain. ‘Ow.’ 

Mycroft stepped back into the room, looking over Greg with a critical eye before taking out the medical kit and bending down next to him. The bandages and gauze the other Tribute had brought out were white and thick. 

Greg winced as Mycroft began to carefully clean the wound with a cloth and water. The cloth quickly turned red with Greg’s blood, and the wound weeped over his chest. The other Tribute was entirely silent, his face pensive and eyes stormy. 

‘Are _you_ alright?’ asked Greg, softly, raising a hand to lay it over Mycroft’s other hand. 

Mycroft looked up at Greg, locking those mesmerising, stormy eyes with Greg’s own. They were captivating, slate grey and dark, roiling with anger and not a small amount of rage. It was ever so slightly scary. 

‘I am fine,’ he replied shortly. Greg smiled, softly, through the pain. ‘Liar,’ he murmured. 

Mycroft looked down. 

Greg didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to say to this beautiful, brilliant young man, this tactician with eyes that could see far beyond the present, the tiny little world that they were both trapped in, for the moment. Consequences and results stretched out in front of him, and Greg had no idea what the right question to ask was. What question would give him the answers that he wanted? 

He realised there wasn’t a question. Not really. 

‘That girl,’ Greg said. ‘You know I don’t blame you for her death, right?’

Mycroft let out a low snort, full of derision. ‘Yes, Gregory. I realise that.’ 

‘Good,’ Greg said, decisively. ‘Cause it ain’t your fault. Moriarty’s an evil bastard. That’s not your fault.’ 

Mycroft hummed, continuing his circular motions to clean off Greg’s wound. 

‘What did he mean, Mycroft?’ Greg asked, suddenly. ‘Before, when he asked you if you had told me the truth yet. What truth was he talking about?’ 

Mycroft froze, his eyes widening. ‘You heard that.’ 

‘Hard to miss,’ Greg grunted. Mycroft took up the movement again, clearly taking the chance to hide his face. ‘He was cackling it like the witch from the old stories.’ 

Mycroft looked up at Greg, a smile starting to form in hints just around the corners of that gorgeous mouth that Greg certainly hadn’t been fantasising about. 

‘Yes,’ Mycroft nodded. ‘The similarities were rather… obvious. Then again, James has always had quite the flare for the dramatic.’ 

Greg laughed, quietly, resting his head back against the makeshift pillow, and closing his eyes. The pain of the wound was intense, curling around his spine and in his head. He knew that the blood loss had lowered his inhibitions, to the point where he felt like he might have had a few. His brain was light, and woozy, and he could only just remember why he hadn’t yet kissed the gorgeously assertive ginger currently catering for his wounds. 

‘We didn’t know her name, did we?’ asked Greg, quietly. ‘She died and I didn’t know her name.’ 

‘I am afraid to say that I don’t believe I did, either,’ Mycroft said, softly. ‘I am sorry, Gregory.’ 

‘So am I,’ said Greg. ‘I shouldn’t have asked that of you.’ 

‘I understand why you did,’ Mycroft murmured, giving Greg’s wound one final swipe before moving onto the gauze. 

Looking down, Greg saw the red gash across his chest from his hip to his shoulder. It divided up the plane of tanned skin at a diagonal, quite striking in its breadth. 

‘I’m gonna have quite the badass scar, aren’t I?’ said Greg, grinning. He didn’t say that he likely wouldn’t make it long enough for that to scar. 

‘Yes,’ said Mycroft. ‘You are, I suppose.’ 

There was something here. Something running behind all the words they were saying. Greg wasn’t sure what it was, and he didn’t think Mycroft really knew, either. 

The sun was still sitting quite high in the sky, bathing the room in light and warmth. Mycroft’s long fingers ran over Greg’s chest, soft and gentle, in such contrast with the Career himself. 

Mycroft was angry. That much Greg could see. He didn’t really know why Mycroft was angry, but it was obvious in the lines of his body and the stormy anger in his eyes, roiling like the sea. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg said, softly, after a moment. ‘You’re angry. Why?’ 

Mycroft looked down at his hands, where he held the damp, bloodstained cloth. He didn’t reply, instead placing down the last bit of gauze. ‘You must stay still. Do you understand, Gregory?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg said, looking away. He didn’t like his chances of trying to get any sort of straight answer out of Mycroft. 

The other Tribute got to his feet, looking down at Greg before turning on one heel and stepping out onto the balcony. Greg hated to see the back of him, but Greg could see his back was straight and stiff, and it seemed like the Career was slowly but steadily losing control of _something._

There were many things here to be losing control of. Many, many things that drove Greg ‘round the bend. 

But the cut on his chest stopped him from trying to get more upright. The edges of it were sore, and hot to the touch. He could see a redness, spreading out from the wound, and the edges were bleeding still. It did also look like there was the yellowing formation of pus. Greg really didn’t like those signs. 

Greg did want answers, though. 

‘Mycroft,’ he called out, weakly. Immediately, the Career turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. ‘Can you….’ 

Immediately, Greg felt like an idiot. His cheeks flared bright red, even as Mycroft stepped closer, cocking his head to the side and peering down at Greg carefully. 

And Greg knew what he needed to ask. 

‘Why are you doing this?’ 

There was silence. It was so quiet, Greg was certain he could hear a pin drop. In the distance, the rumbling of falling water could be heard, weaker now as there hadn’t been any rain. The sounds of birds flying overhead rustled, and the wind quietly whistled past the balcony door. 

Mycroft’s hair ruffled in the breeze, the auburn locks striking and brilliant. Those stark eyes were stormy and grey, angry and contemplative. Mycroft’s jawline was sharp and hard, and those lips were pressed together in an expression that couldn’t easily be read. Not by Greg, at least. 

There was certainly a heaviness to the air between them. A tension, and Greg couldn’t remember anymore why he had stopped it the first time. Why he had held back from goddamn _begging_ Mycroft. 

The setting sun cast the room in a quiet orange. Mycroft looked like he had been carved from bronze, a statuesque leader standing as a reminder of what humanity had to strive to become. 

Mycroft blinked, breaking the spell that had fallen over them. 

‘Do you remember what I said to you on the roof in the Capitol?’ asked Mycroft, quietly. The other Tribute seemed to have come to some sort of decision, as he took a seat down next to Greg, and looked intently at the injured Tribute. 

Greg himself felt like he was burning alive under that gaze. 

‘You told me you wanted to consume me,’ Greg murmured. 

Mycroft let out a low laugh, turning a predatory gaze on Greg, before looking away once more. ‘Yes, I did say that. And it continues to be true. But that is not what I want you to remember.’ 

‘What, then?’ 

‘I told you that I did not plan for _you._ I did not plan for you to happen. You surprised me then, and you continue to surprise me now. I strongly suspect that you will surprise me as far into the future as I may be blessed by your company.’ 

‘My company ain’t a huge blessing, mate,’ chuckled Greg. 

‘That, you see,’ murmured Mycroft, leaning over Greg so he was but a hair’s breadth away. ‘is where you are wrong. You are astonishingly kind and astonishingly brave. I expected all other Tributes I was here with to be cowards. I expected to sweep aside the competition and pass onto the greater war to be fought. This was but the first domino in a line to fall, the first battle to be won. 

‘But I find now, my dear Gregory, that it is not going to be so easy. I have had to modify plan after plan for you. It has been no small feat, but I have done it. And I find… I am rather happy to do so.’ 

Greg couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, all the air was caught in his lungs, trapped exactly in this moment. What was going to happen, now? 

Mycroft had basically purred the last few sentences of what he had just spoken, and Greg knew he didn’t have any chance. Not at all. 

It hadn’t been his control they had been relying on this entire time. It had been Mycroft’s. Mycroft’s command over his own baser instincts in favour of the greater war to be fought. 

Mycroft raised a single finger, mirroring that moment in the garden, on the roof of the Tribute Tower. He raised his finger and laid it on Greg’s chin, tipping his head back by not a small amount. It brought Greg’s gaze up, so he was directly at eye-line with Mycroft. 

Those stormy, slate grey eyes bored into Greg’s skull, made heat frisson up his spine from his toes to the top of his head. 

God, he wanted to die, right this very second. If he died, right now, he would die a happy man. 

‘My dear Gregory, I have met politicians and bankers. I have met masters and slaves, leaders and peasants, Gamemakers and Tributes, generals and soldiers, and every single person in between. And I have yet to meet a single person who interests me, surprises me or intrigues me the way you do. I have never met someone who I want to possess _more_ than you, Gregory Lestrade. 

‘And I have also never met someone I have wanted to possess _me_ more than you.’ 

Greg gasped out a breath he knew he had been holding. Captivated as he was in Mycroft’s stormy eyes, he hadn’t been able to rationalise anything. Everything felt hazy, not just in a bad way from blood loss, either. The world felt like it had been tipped on its axis. It felt like everything had changed in the space of a few seconds, between heartbeats. 

Mycroft’s whole hand rested under Greg’s chin, keeping Greg’s eyes locked with those mesmerising slate greys. Mycroft’s long nose was a neat line in front of Greg, the smooth planes of the other Tribute’s face barely marked and clean. The slight stubble forming on Mycroft’s chin was almost clear, ever so slightly reddish in hue. 

This close, Greg was filled with the scent of Mycroft, that warm, manly scent mixed with the scent of the ocean, and the rusty scent of lightning after a storm. Mycroft’s lips, this close, were a pale pink in colour, looking warm and inviting. They were parted, ever so slightly, and Mycroft’s eyes were dark, with dilated pupils. 

The corners of that mouth were turned up in a sort of predatory smirk Greg was horribly familiar with, and those eyes shone with that same gleam that made Greg’s knees weak. Mycroft’s other hand had come up to hold him evenly above Greg, and keep the other Tribute’s body weight entirely off Greg beneath him. 

Greg wanted that weight on top of him. 

Mycroft had bounced the ball into his court, Greg realised, suddenly. Mycroft had stated his intentions loud and clear, and the heat of his words had gone straight to Greg’s cock. 

Greg was astonished with the speed at which this had all happened. He was frozen, unable to entirely process or comprehend. There was so much here, so much to consider, so much to contemplate and he couldn’t begin to think it through. In the thinking department, Mycroft had him solidly beat. 

Mycroft’s almost salacious smirk peaked, and then Mycroft’s face was getting closer. Closer and closer and closer, until Greg realised those warm lips were blazing up his throat, along the underside of his jaw and across his Adam’s apple. It burned, as if Mycroft’s mouth was breathing fire. 

A whimper filled the air, and Greg realised it must have come from him. Raising one arm, he curled it around Mycroft’s back, and closed his eyes, tightly, unable to take the visual input alongside the sensation of lips trailing up his neck and across his jaw before blazing a path downwards again to his collarbone. 

‘God,’ Greg whimpered. ‘Mycroft, please… God, please…’ 

‘Please what, Gregory?’ asked Mycroft, almost sweetly. ‘You are going to have to be more specific.’ 

Greg sighed out a breath, panting even to his own ears. Both his arms were now wrapped of their own accord around Mycroft’s back, one palm taking a handful of that arse he had admired before, and the other running up the curve of Mycroft’s lightly muscled back. 

Tipping his head forwards, Greg ran his other hand up Mycroft’s back and threaded his fingers through the short, auburn locks at the base of Mycroft’s skull. 

Then, with a gasp, he caught Mycroft’s lips in his own. 

This was nothing like Greg had ever felt before. Soft and hot and wet and absolutely fucking _perfect._ Mycroft’s lips worked skilfully over his, opening up Greg’s mouth underneath him, and pressing through. 

Greg panted into Mycroft’s mouth, gripping Mycroft harder and trying to pull the long-limbed Career further over him. Sparks were shooting off behind his eyes, and his entire body felt light and airy. 

The wound in his chest hurt just that little bit less, and Mycroft’s hand on his jaw was tight and unyielding. 

Bringing his other arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, Greg arched up into Mycroft, gasping when his hardness met an identical one on the Career above him. 

‘Oh, God,’ Greg whispered, heat blooming up his spine, as Mycroft worked his lips down Greg’s neck again. ‘ _Mycroft.’_

The moans he was letting out were downright filthy, and Greg could feel Mycroft’s smirk against the curve of his throat. 

‘Fuck,’ Greg whispered, panting.

‘What you do to me, Gregory,’ Mycroft murmured, in return, against the curve of Greg’s throat. The humming of those vocal chords went straight down Greg’s chest, pooling somewhere around his navel. 

Their clothed cocks were pressed right against one another, grinding harshly, and Greg thought that if Mycroft didn’t stop soon, he was going to come right in his pants. 

And that was totally fine. 

Everything was fucking great, right now, actually. 

Greg tugged Mycroft’s lips back to his own, pressing tightly against them and working his tongue in. It was no small feat, but Mycroft did let out a low, growling moan, and pressed back roughly, winding fingers through Greg’s hair and tugging. 

Gasping at the sudden pressure, Greg tilted his head and engaged Mycroft’s mouth more fully, even as Mycroft ground against him. The Career’s right hand was moving proprietarily over Greg’s flank and hip, making Greg cry out at the sensation.

It was almost too much - a delight in touch and taste and smell that overwhelmed everything Greg could see and hear and think and he revelled in it. 

That was until Mycroft leant over Greg just the wrong angle, and the gash across Greg’s chest made itself known. 

Greg actually cried out, from pain rather than pleasure, sending Mycroft to a grinding halt. Mycroft stopped, immediately, leaning back upright. 

Fumbling, Greg let his arms loose, and trembled as pain rocketed through his body. 

‘Fucking _shit_ that hurts,’ Greg grumbled. ‘Oh God.’ 

‘I apologise, Gregory,’ said Mycroft, stiffly. 

Greg sighed, and reached out a hand. ‘No, don’t,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. More than fine, actually. Brilliant, really.’ 

‘I should have had more self-control.’ 

‘No,’ grunted Greg, ‘you shouldn’t have.’ 

With a tug, Greg pulled Mycroft down to lay next to him. 

‘Maybe we should leave it for a while, though. When I don’t have a great big bloody gash across my chest, hey?’ 

Mycroft smirked. ‘Perhaps that would be best.’ 

Greg was quiet, for a moment. ‘Come here?’ he asked, reaching out a hand for Mycroft. 

Mycroft inclined his head, ’Of course.’ Shuffling closer, Mycroft laid next to Greg on top of the sleeping bag, reaching an arm around to fold behind his head. 

Greg shook his head. It wasn’t close enough. Not after that. He was afraid he might have a bit of an addiction to Mycroft being close to him. He shuffled over, wincing at the pain the motion gave him, and opened up the sleeping bag, tugging Mycroft on top of it. 

The Career wasn’t much help, just an awkward lump who didn’t really seem to know what he was doing, all of a sudden. 

‘I’m not glass,’ Greg grumbled. ‘I’m not going to shatter when you touch me.’ 

‘I know,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘What I do not know is how much you want.’ 

Greg sighed. ‘Just… come here.’ 

‘Very well,’ murmured Mycroft. Greg could see that there was still heat staining his cheeks, and a definite tent to the other Tribute’s trousers. His own erection had completely flagged when pain had rocketed through his body, and he was now much calmer. 

Manoeuvring Mycroft into the open sleeping bag, Greg then laid down next to him, thankful that the bag seemed to be able to fit the both of them inside. He then pressed against Mycroft, curling over to fit into the curve of Mycroft’s own body. 

Mycroft’s chin rested just behind his ear, and his hot breaths ghosted over the base of Greg’s skull. Slowly, Mycroft’s own erection seemed to be subsiding, and fitting into the curve of Greg’s arse quite nicely. 

Slowly, Mycroft drew an arm over Greg’s body, to rest over Greg’s heart, well clear of the cut that ran up his torso. 

‘Is this alright?’ asked Greg, tentatively. Mycroft chuckled, right by his ear. 

‘More than, my dear, more than.’ 

Greg smiled, softly. ‘Thank you.’ 

‘You must stop that,’ insisted Mycroft, leaning forward to peck Greg on the back of the neck. ‘It’s terribly tedi—‘ 

They were interrupted in their quiet murmurings by the sound of the Capitol anthem playing outside. Greg grumbled, but Mycroft simply laid a hand on his shoulder. 

‘We know who passed today,’ he said, softly. ‘We don’t need to see it again.’ 

‘I know,’ whispered Greg. ‘I just… feel like I owe it to that little girl.’ 

‘Yes, but we can mourn her here as well as outside. And I do not believe it is wise for you to move,’ Mycroft told him. ‘Particularly after your earlier… _exertions._ ’ 

Greg sighed, but nodded, closing his eyes and listening to the Capitol anthem outside the window. The heat of the wound on his chest was undeniable, spreading from the cut out to unnaturally warm his body and neck. He groaned, a little. 

‘What is the matter, Gregory?’ asked Mycroft, softly. 

‘My cut,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know very much about it, but I think… there’s pus and stuff, and I can already tell the gauze and bandaging is damp from it.’ 

‘Ah,’ said Mycroft, softly, tightening his arm around Greg. 

‘I think it might be infected, Mycroft.’ 

‘I agree that it is a possibility,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘It is large, and comes from a weapon that was certainly unsanitary. But I did clean it not only with salt water but with fresh water as well.’ 

Greg hummed. 

Suddenly, the anthem outside cut off, and a man’s voice, one Greg recognised as belonging to Mike Stamford, the Head Gamemaker, rang out through the Arena. 

_‘Tributes, the Gamemakers are aware that each and every one of you needs something.’_

Next to him, Mycroft stiffened. Where the other Tribute’s hand had been tracing delicate circles over Greg’s chest, it stopped, freezing entirely. 

Greg glanced back at Mycroft to see those stormy eyes focused on something far off in the distance. 

_‘We are prepared to be gracious hosts. Tomorrow morning at sunrise, we will hold a feast at the Clock Tower. Please, come, and take what you all so desperately need.’_

Then, silence. 

Mycroft exhaled lightly, into Greg’s neck. Greg gripped Mycroft’s hand, on his chest, tightly. 

‘It’ll be medicine,’ said Mycroft. ‘The Gamemakers… this means they know that your cut is infected.’ 

‘You’re not going,’ said Greg. 

‘I am going,’ replied Mycroft. ‘You require that medicine to remain alive, Gregory, if I am not mistaken. Thus, I will certainly be going.’ 

‘They’re trying to drive us all together, Mycroft! You know that! You know they’re just going to be driving us all together, for God’s sake. Don’t go!’ 

‘That is rather the point, isn’t it?’ Mycroft murmured, pressing tightly against Greg’s back. ‘I am, however, also curious as to what it is Irene and Moriarty require.’ 

‘Didn’t you injure Irene?’ asked Greg. ‘Maybe she needs it for that.’ 

‘I did not injure her badly,’ replied Mycroft. ‘No. It is likely that Moriarty requires another toy to try and lure me out, some method to hunt me down and kill me.’ 

‘All the more reason not to go. Mycroft, you could be killed. I’m not worth that.’ 

‘You most certainly are, Gregory,’ Mycroft replied, fiercely. ‘You will not die at the hands of James Moriarty. I will be seeing to that.’ 

‘Mycroft, please listen to me,’ Greg said, turning in Mycroft’s arms to face the other Tribute, looking up into those angry, stormy eyes. ‘I don’t want you to go.’ 

‘You would do the same for me, Gregory. You are simply that brave. Allow me my chance to show that same bravery.’ 

‘You _are_ brave,’ Greg insisted. ‘I do stupid things that are also brave. You shouldn’t do the same thing.’ 

Mycroft let out a long, slow sigh, and pressed his lips to Greg’s forehead. ‘Your chest is burning up. I give you around a day until the fever from the infection takes ahold. Then, you have but days until the infection ravages your body beyond the point of no return. It’ll burn you from the inside out, Gregory.’ 

‘So?’ Greg snorted. ‘I’m going to die anyway, at some point.’ 

‘Have you never entertained the thought, not even once, that you may win these Games?’ 

Greg let out an even larger snort, but pressed his face into Mycroft’s shoulder. ‘No,’ he mumbled, ‘I haven’t. Because I’m not giving myself unrealistic hope. That doesn’t help. I went into these Games wanting to survive as long as I possibly could. I don’t have a realistic chance at winning, Mycroft. I don’t. The only reason I’ve survived this long is because of you.’ 

‘That is most certainly not true.’ 

‘It is true, and you know it. But if I’m going to die, I’m happy to do it to give you a better chance at winning. By yourself, I think you could do it. Without me as a deadweight, I reckon you can go on to beat Moriarty. Beat him and Irene both and win.’ 

Mycroft sighed, again. 

‘I want you to win, Mycroft,’ said Greg, softly, leaning against Mycroft’s shoulder. 

After the first taste of touch from Mycroft, Greg found he couldn’t possibly ever get enough. Nothing would ever be enough. 

‘I do. I want you to win. Then again, my options here for winning aren’t particularly spectacular, I’ll admit. Either you, Moriarty the psychotic whip murderer, or Irene the psychotic axe murderer.’ 

Mycroft did chuckle at that. Greg grinned into the press of Mycroft’s shoulder. 

‘Seriously, Mycroft. I mean it. You aren’t just the best of a bad lot, when you win the Games you could go on to do amazing things. You know it.’ 

‘You seem very keen to write yourself off.’ 

‘I’m simply saying that for me to win, it would mean you would have to die. And I reckon I’m a bit sentimental about you. You know, just a tad.’ 

Mycroft hummed. 

‘So, did you agree? You’re not going to go to the feast tomorrow?’ 

‘I don’t believe we have come to any sort of arrangement, Gregory.’ 

‘I think we have,’ Greg replied. ‘You’re not going to go, and I am going to stay up all night to make sure of it.’ 

‘Gregory, that is an abjectly bad idea. You need your rest.’ 

‘Yeah, well, I don’t if it means you don’t go on a suicide mission that’ll get you killed.’ 

‘Please, give me more credit,’ Mycroft muttered. 

***

Greg woke from a light snooze on his side, Mycroft pressed against him, but wary of his wound. A beeping was emanating through the window. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg mumbled into the taller Career’s neck. ‘There’s a parachute outside.’ 

Mycroft grunted, and then carefully unwound himself from around Greg, unzipping the sleeping bag. Greg rolled over onto his back, trying to be careful of his wound, and watched as Mycroft leaned over him. 

‘How did you sleep, my dear?’ asked Mycroft, almost sweetly. Greg grinned, but it turned into a grimace as he felt pain blossoming from his weeping cut. 

‘Ow…’ groaned Greg, rubbing a hand over the gauze. His hand came away slightly damp, and smelling of musty pus. ‘Oh, that’s disgusting.’ 

Mycroft murmured, in concern, and leant over to press a hand on Greg’s forehead. 

‘You definitely have a fever.’ 

Greg didn’t want to admit it, but it had gotten worse. There was a warmth burning through his core, and his head felt like it had been hit by an axe. Mycroft pursed his lips. 

Outside, the parachute had touched down on the crumbling balcony, but was still emitting that annoying beeping noise. It rang in Greg’s ears, already sensitive from the effects of the fever. ‘Can you shut that thing up, please, Mycroft?’ 

‘Of course,’ replied Mycroft, nodding, and turning sharply to step out onto the balcony. 

It was still quite dark, and the coals of the fire Mycroft had stoked last night were glowing. Greg could hear the lapping of water outside, even through his woozy, aching head. There was also a coolness to the air, and Greg was certain had he not had a fever, he would be shivering. 

Mycroft stepped back into the room, framed by moonlight in the doorway to the balcony. He held the open canister in one hand, inspecting the contents carefully. 

‘What is it?’ asked Greg, looking up when Mycroft paced carefully over to him. 

Mycroft shook his head, kneeling down next to Greg. 

‘Nothing important,’ he replied, setting it aside. ‘Just some supplies.’ 

Greg was far too tired and woozy to question him on it, just gesturing at Mycroft to slide down next to him. Mycroft hesitated. 

‘What’s wrong?’ Greg questioned, rubbing a hand over his eyes in an attempt to clear the black spots from his vision. To no avail, of course. 

‘Gregory,’ Mycroft said, softly, ‘I am sorry for this. But I need to do this for you.’ 

‘What?’ Greg asked, confused. 

Mycroft said nothing, but the barrel of the needle he pulled from the canister reflected the moonlight. Greg could do nothing to fight him off, only able to widen his eyes in surprise before Mycroft was pressing the syringe into Greg’s arm, and depressing the plunger. 

The clear liquid vanished into Greg’s veins without any fanfare. He could feel it spreading through his blood, up his arm and to his head, making him feel relaxed and woozy, even more so than before. 

Mycroft leaned over, and pressed a sharp, almost harsh kiss to Greg’s lips. Greg couldn’t reciprocate, too weak, dizzy and faint. 

‘Nnnn…’ Greg mumbled, fumbling for Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft quickly dodged him, as the blackness around Greg’s vision took control, making him slump back into the sleeping bag, unconscious. 

***

The sound of a cannon was what woke Greg. Greg shot upright, and then let out a loud scream of pain, as agony shot through his shoulder and his chest. 

Greg collapsed back into the sleeping bag, squeezing his eyes shut to deal with the dual sensations of the pounding headache thundering through his skull, and the fiery burn of the infected gash across his torso. 

‘Shit, fuck, shit,’ Greg cursed, hoarsely. 

Then, he realised. 

A cannon had just gone off, and Mycroft had gone to the bloody feast. And a cannon had gone off. 

‘Oh no, no no no no.’ 

Someone had died. Greg didn’t know who, and wouldn’t know until Mycroft either returned… or, God fucking forbid, didn’t return. 

Greg pushed himself to his feet, as best he could, agony ripping up his spine, as he stumbled over to the balcony. He crashed through the window, almost overbalancing, but catching himself on the worn wrought iron balustrade.

Looking over, he saw that the land bridge was completely bare of water, and open. There was no sign of movement on the other side of the bridge, out on the shore, and Greg didn’t even want to consider the fact that Mycroft might not come back. 

‘Please… please, no, I’ve only just found him,’ Greg whispered, his legs going out from under him. His knees felt like complete jelly, and his head was swimming from the pain and overwhelming sensation of everything that was happening. 

This couldn’t be…. this wasn’t fair. It wasn’t. He’d only just found Mycroft. They’d only just found their way to this spot, and Greg knew that while it was hopeless, while they were doomed from the start, it couldn’t be like this. 

He didn’t want it to be fucking like this. 

Mycroft had to live. He had to. 

The wrought iron balustrade was cold against Greg’s forehead. There was a slight breeze up, and the sky was clear and blue. He had no idea how long he had been out - he didn’t think it was that long. 

‘Come on, you bastard,’ Greg murmured, into the railings. ‘Come on, you stupid fucking bastard. You can’t do this to me.’ 

Greg peered intently at the tree line, hoping to all hell for a goddamn miracle that might not ever fucking come. Tears prickled behind Greg’s eyes, pressing forwards with an undeniable pressure. This was unbearable. It was goddamn, fucking unbearable and —

There was a figure, stumbling from the tree line. 

Peering closer, Greg saw the familiar shape of Mycroft Holmes, his shirt ripped and his jacket entirely gone, the silver lick of the Career’s rapier at his side. 

Mycroft was shambling along, looking like he had been seriously hurt, but was still moving along. 

And he was goddamn, fucking _alive._


	26. God

‘MYCROFT!’ Greg called out, pulling himself up weakly using the balustrade. The entire world was spinning, his head was pounding from the infection, and pain was shooting through his veins, but Greg didn’t care. 

Mycroft, the ginger haired bastard, looked up at where Greg was standing, calling out to him, then looked away. The land bridge was slowly becoming more and more revealed, and spray was washing over it, but it was an easy trek for Mycroft. 

Greg found he couldn’t take his eyes off the Career, watching as the other Tribute made his slow way across the land bridge towards the tower. As he got closer and closer, Greg could see he was limping quite badly, and he had a large, red gash across his cheek that was bleeding, as well as a gash on his forehead. 

Anger roiled through Greg, anger with Mycroft for pulling that stunt. But it was by far overwhelmed by the fact that Mycroft was actually alive. He was actually goddamn alive and Greg was so thankful for that fact. 

He’d only just found Mycroft, after all. He had only just found the other Tribute and he didn’t want to lose him like this. Not someone so unique, who was already carving out a place in Greg’s heart, mind and soul for himself. 

There was only so much one person could take. 

Mycroft was limping closer to the bottom of the skyscraper, and Greg turned and shambled out of the room as best he could, leaning against the walls when the world spun and everything felt just that little bit too dizzy. From there it was a simple matter of waiting at the top of the stairs for the other Tribute, and listening as Mycroft struggled his way up. 

When the ginger haired Career turned the corner, Greg was waiting at the top. Immense relief flooded through Greg, as well as a new wave of anger. Mycroft limped up the stairs slowly, averting his eyes from Greg’s face. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg murmured, softly, ‘I—‘ 

‘Could this conversation possibly wait a little longer?’ asked Mycroft, his voice entirely too hoarse for Greg’s liking. ‘I have the medicine for your cut.’ 

Greg frowned, furrowing his brow. Should he push the point?

On one hand, Mycroft had resorted to a low trick to get away from him, to go to the fucking feast. But he had come back. He had done something brave, for Greg, and Greg couldn’t deny the fact that not only had he been hurt for it, but he seemed to have managed to take out another Tribute, possibly Irene or Moriarty. Somehow. 

Even if he wanted to, Greg wasn’t sure he could. Waves of nausea were running through him, and he couldn’t help but be excited by the prospect of having the medicine to heal his cut, and take away the pain of the infection, and the fever. 

Greg sighed, dropping his shoulders, and releasing his tension. ‘Okay,’ he murmured, softly, ‘But don’t think you’ve escaped from it.’ 

Mycroft smiled, weakly. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’ 

Greg helped Mycroft limp back to the spot beside the fire, and he sat down himself. 

The satchel in Mycroft’s hands was opened to produce a small medical pack, as well as a silvery canister filled with some sort of cream. It looked horribly expensive, and Greg knew no sponsor could have possibly given enough money to afford it. 

‘Lie back, please, Gregory,’ Mycroft said, softly. Greg nodded, and laid back into place on top of the sleeping bag, waiting. Quickly, he began by removing the bandages. 

In the light of the morning, the cut looked even worse. It was weeping an odd mixture of blood and pus, and purple lines were extending from it. Greg frowned. 

‘I’ve never seen an infection progress so quickly,’ Greg murmured, softly. Mycroft didn’t reply, just using his long fingers to unscrew the cap of the canister, and reach inside to produce a whitish-blue cream. 

Carefully, Mycroft smeared the cream over Greg wound. 

‘Ah, shit,’ Greg hissed. The cool touch of the cream was stinging and harsh, and it felt like some sort of acid, dissolving away his flesh. Mycroft bit his lip in concentration, continuing to work the cream into Greg’s cut, while Greg himself winced under the Career’s ministrations. 

‘That is all you need, I believe,’ Mycroft said, softly, a moment later, removing his hand and setting aside the canister, before taking up some more bandages and gauze, and carefully re-wrapping the wound. 

‘You need some too,’ said Greg, softly, reaching up an arm to rest it on Mycroft’s jaw, looking meaningfully at the gashes and cuts on the Career’s beautiful features. 

Mycroft frowned, but didn’t stop Greg when he reached out for the canister, and taking up some of the cream. Gently, Greg wiped it over Mycroft’s cuts and carefully began to rub it over Mycroft’s various injuries. The Career winced. 

Eventually, Greg realised he had covered them all, and dropped his hand back down from Mycroft’s face. Mycroft himself had remained entirely frozen throughout the whole process, but now sighed, and reached out to stroke the side of Greg’s face. His long fingers were cool to the touch, and ever so slightly dirty. 

The drag of his fingerprints over Greg’s dry skin was lovely, and Greg leaned carefully into the touch. Mycroft smiled, softly, those grey eyes wide and glassy. 

‘Marvellous,’ Mycroft whispered. 

‘What is?’ asked Greg, ever so slightly smiling in memory. 

‘You are,’ Mycroft shot back, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. 

Greg reached out his hand, and enfolded Mycroft’s loose one in his own grip, taking it up carefully, and squeezing. 

They were silent, just looking into each others’ eyes. It was sappy, romantic, all of those good things, and for a moment, Greg could forget where they were. He could forget the reality of their situation. 

Eventually, Mycroft broke the gaze, leaning down to press a kiss on Greg’s brow. Greg sighed, in happiness.

‘What happened?’ he asked, softly, after a moment. 

Mycroft looked away, tiredness overtaking his features. 

‘I killed Irene,’ he replied. 

‘Oh, love,’ Greg whispered, squeezing Mycroft’s hand, tightly. Gone was the predatory, dangerous, assertive Career, in its place was a more vulnerable man, someone with a heart and mind. 

Mycroft shook his head. ‘It is fine, Gregory. She tried to kill me, first.’ 

‘I can see that, Greg muttered, reaching up a hand to carefully trace the no longer weeping cuts over Mycroft’s features. ‘But are you alright? What happened to your leg?’ 

‘Not anything particularly detrimental,’ replied Mycroft. ‘I simply tripped. It aches, a little, but nothing that will not dissipate over time.’ 

Greg nodded, satisfied with that response. 

The anger he had felt when Mycroft had returned at first had finally gone, leaving a sort of resignation in its place. Greg could see, though, that Mycroft was still worried Greg was angry with him. 

He had to decide what to say, now. 

Mycroft’s slate eyes were looking at him, expectantly. 

‘I’m not angry with you,’ Greg said, slowly, after a moment. Mycroft bit his lip, and looked away. ‘I was, but I’m not anymore. What you did was brave, love. Really, really brave. Thank you.’ 

‘Have I not asked you to stop thanking me?’ Mycroft questioned, looking back at Greg with a raised brow. 

Besides the sarcasm, though, Greg could see Mycroft was relieved. Greg smiled, and squeezed his hand. 

‘Ain’t gonna stop me, love.’

They lapsed into silence, for a little while. Mycroft sighed, and looked out the window again. 

‘Hey, Mycroft,’ Greg asked, after a moment, ‘Come here?’

Mycroft looked over at him, and his eyes softened. Slowly, the Career lowered himself down to rest beside Greg, who immediately turned over and pressed up against him. 

Slowly, Mycroft’s arms went around Greg’s back, holding him. 

‘What’s going to happen now?’ asked Greg, into Mycroft’s skin. ‘James will be angry,’ Mycroft replied, softly, ‘But I believe the action today may give us some respite from the Gamemakers trying to push us all together. After all, a battle between two of the most powerful players in these Games is something quite entertaining for them.’ 

‘Mmm,’ Greg hummed, in agreement. 

There was a silence, between them. Greg listened to Mycroft’s heartbeat through the Career’s shirt. Mycroft’s hands were slowly, but surely, stroking up and down Greg’s back, drawing shapes. 

Enchanted, Greg felt like he was slipping into a daze. 

That was, of course before he remembered he had something he wanted to ask Mycroft. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg murmured, ‘Moriarty’s whip. I think it might be poisoned. Cause you don’t get cuts that get infected that quickly and easily.’ 

‘Yes,’ Mycroft agreed. ‘I believe you are right. I certainly would not be surprised, at any rate. James is rather the sort to do that.’ 

‘Where would he had gotten the poison from?’ Greg asked. 

‘There are poisonous plants around,’ Mycroft replied, his voice quiet, but with an edge of anger to it. The strokes over Greg’s back were becoming distinctly more possessive and protective. ‘I believe James has the skills to take the poison from them and place it on the tip of his whip. It is, after all, the only explanation for your infection progressing as fast as it did.

‘He likely did it in the hopes of somehow managing to harm me, and then giving me a slow and painful death. It would also explain why he let us go with a minimal fight. He thought you were doomed, anyway. And I strongly suspect that were you to die, I would not be far behind.’ 

‘Don’t say that,’ Greg murmured, nosing against Mycroft’s chest. ‘You aren’t gonna follow me into the grave, Mycroft. When I’m dead—‘ 

‘— _If_ you are dead—‘ 

Greg shook his head. _‘When_ I’m dead, you’re gonna kill that bastard. You got me?’ 

‘No,’ Mycroft replied. ‘You are so certain of your fate. That is unacceptable.’ 

Greg sighed, but didn’t fight Mycroft on it. It was, rather, a losing battle, and he had accepted it a long time ago. 

‘Will Moriarty know Irene’s dead by now?’ asked Greg, suddenly. 

‘Almost certainly,’ Mycroft replied. ‘As soon as the cannon fired, and she did not return, he would know that she was dead. At my hands, no less.’ 

‘He’s going to come after us, soon, isn’t he?’ asked Greg, quietly. 

‘I believe so, yes,’ replied Mycroft. ‘But I do not believe he will be getting any sort of assistance from the Gamemakers to do so. I took the supplies intended for him, and threw them into the water.’ 

‘What was it?’

‘Explosives,’ said Mycroft, quietly. ‘That means that the Capitol quite enjoyed Moriarty’s explosive little games before. The Gamemakers wanted to try and promote it to happen again.’ 

‘But it isn’t now, is it?’ 

‘No,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘It is not. But Moriarty is sneaky. He will, I believe, come up with another solution. Some other way of driving us towards the finale.’ 

Greg bit his lip, and pressed in against Mycroft’s warmth more tightly. The ache in his chest was dissipating, slowly, he noticed, and he felt a little more aware, but also somehow more sleepy. 

Leaning up, Greg nosed along Mycroft’s jaw. Mycroft sighed out, and ran a hand up Greg’s spine, gently, before burying it in Greg’s silvery hair. 

Greg gasped, and leaned up. Mycroft leant down, in turn, and pressed his own lips to Greg’s. It was a chaste thing, a small, comforting peck that didn’t want for anything more, didn’t seek out anything. 

Mycroft hummed, before rubbing a circle in Greg’s back. Greg was tired, his bones feeling heavy, and soft. 

‘Sleep, Gregory,’ said Mycroft, softly. ‘You need to heal.’ 

‘Mmm,’ Greg hummed, before relaxing back against Mycroft’s chest. ‘Mycroft?’ 

‘Yes, my dear?’ 

‘I like you.’ 

‘I like you, too,’ replied Mycroft. ‘Strangely enough.’ 

Greg grinned, and slowly let sleep take him. 

***

Greg awoke alone, and for a moment, he panicked, thinking he had dreamt Mycroft coming back to him. Then, he saw the canister, and realised that Mycroft must have come back. 

Carefully, Greg got to his feet, expecting an immediate twinge of pain through his chest, which didn’t come, to his relief, and surprise. Slowly, he unwrapped the bandage from around his chest, and immediately startled at what he saw there. 

The cut was almost entirely healed, the remnants of blood and all sorts of pus were gone. Instead, only a long, pink line remained, slightly bumpy and calloused, looking like a healed wound after several weeks, not several hours. 

‘Mycroft!’ Greg called out, excitedly springing to his feet and marvelling at the astonishing amount of energy he suddenly had. There was no response. 

Looking around, Greg spotted Mycroft’s rapier, leaning against the wall. That meant he couldn’t have left, for some reason. 

But where else could the other Career have gone? It wasn’t like they were in an open space in a District where Mycroft could have popped off down to the market for a bit of bread. 

Greg turned, looking out to the balcony. The sun was setting, on the horizon, bathing the entire room in gold and copper. It was quite late, and Greg realised he must have slept for quite some time. 

‘Mycroft?’ Greg called out again, questioning. 

Still there was no response. 

Gently, Greg padded over to the balcony, stepping out through the window and taking a quick look around. There was no movement, no signs of life aside from the trees on the shore line. The land bridge had closed up entirely, water washing over it so deep that Greg couldn’t even make out where it was, aside from where it began and ended on the shore and next to their own building. 

Looking up, Greg suddenly had a thought. 

There was a fire escape, made of wrought iron, standing next to the balcony. It was a simple matter of stepping onto it, trying to ignore the whining protestations of the iron under his feet. Slowly, carefully, Greg stepped up, over the rusted steps that looked like they may give way, all the way to the top of the building. 

It wasn’t as far of a climb to get to their floor, thank goodness. Greg could still feel vestiges of exhaustion in his limbs, but overall, he was feeling far more energetic than he had been. The poison had sapped all the strength from his limbs, it seemed. 

When he reached the roof, Greg gasped at what he saw. It was a rather astonishing vista, looking out to the water and the various crumbling skyscrapers dotted here and there. Up here, the slope of their leaning building was more obvious, and the seam where it joined with the building next door, on a more steep slope and ever so slightly taller, ran between them. 

Mycroft was standing directly over this seam, looking out over the beautiful image of the setting sun, casting the sea in gold and the other, skeletal skyscrapers into shadow. 

The pinks and yellows and oranges of sunset made the ginger hair on Mycroft’s head shine, and his skin coppery. Those long limbs were relaxed, by the Tribute’s side, and Greg thought, not for the first time, that Mycroft looked like a king. He looked like a regal figure, all long lines and arched cheek bones, a nose that was long and straight, and eyes that gleamed in the light. 

As soon as Greg stepped out onto the roof of the building, Mycroft looked over at him. His expression didn’t change, but his posture did, and it gestured Greg over with the slight tilt to those shoulders and widening of the Career’s stance. 

Greg walked over, quietly, calmly, to stand next to Mycroft and take the other Tribute’s hand in his own. 

‘My chest is healed,’ Greg commented, quietly. ‘And your cuts are, too. Rather miraculous stuff, that.’ 

‘Yes, the technology of the Capitol is beyond compare.’ 

‘Now,’ muttered Greg, ‘If only they’d stop taking the best stuff for themselves and start sharing it with those who actually need it.’ 

Mycroft hummed, and turned to Greg, opening his arms. Greg stepped into them, willingly, pressing his face into the crook of Mycroft’s neck, and digging his nose in right above Mycroft’s collarbone. Mycroft’s arms wrapped carefully around Greg’s waist, making Greg feel precious, almost cherished. 

He had no idea how long this could last. 

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair. 

He could only have something like this in his last days. Fucking typical, really. 

Mycroft’s hand reached up to stroke through his silvery hair, carefully. 

‘Why do you have such silver hair, Gregory?’ asked Mycroft, after amoment. 

‘You mean you don’t know?’ Greg murmured, teasingly. Mycroft pinched his behind, a little, enticing a small chuckle out of Greg. ‘Suzie asked me the same thing. When I was younger, I was in an accident. My father… he died in the same accident. With a Peacekeeper, and an explosion, you see.’

‘Ah, I do apologise.’ 

‘No, no,’ Greg shook his head. ‘It’s fine. I don’t mind. No one really knows why my hair turned grey. It’s a shame, really. Makes me look like a damn old man.’ 

‘I am quite partial to it,’ Mycroft said, winding a hand through it and tugging, slightly, before releasing once more. Greg smiled. 

‘Well, I suppose it makes me distinctive,’ he shrugged. ‘I don’t mind it that much, any more. I used to hate it, though.’ 

‘Oh?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg sighed, turning his face to look at Mycroft’s. ‘It was John, actually, who convinced me to like it. I needed to look more mature so people would take me more seriously as his guardian. It was quite useful, back then.’ 

Mycroft didn’t reply, but stroked another hand through Greg’s hair, gentle as a feather. It was a lovely thing, really. Lovely, and quietly affectionate, up here on the roof. 

Greg chuckled, into Mycroft’s shoulder. 

‘What is it?’ asked Mycroft, squeezing Greg’s waist. 

‘You know,’ murmured Greg, ‘I was afraid of you. Coming into the Arena, before the Games, even in the Training Centre those first few days. I was so scared of you. Dimmock told me… he told me that you were the one to decide who would live and who would die when in the Arena.’ 

Mycroft stiffened, before pushing away from Greg, stepping past him sharply to walk to the edge of the roof. Greg bit his lip, frozen. 

‘I’m sorry, Mycr—‘ 

‘It is fine, Gregory,’ Mycroft stopped him. ‘I do know what they say about me.’ 

Greg bucked up his courage, and stepped forwards, to stand just behind Mycroft. In this light, Mycroft was astonishing. Astounding. He looked like some sort of otherworldly being, an angel sent down from on high to grace them with his presence. 

The profile of Mycroft’s face was bright, and brilliant, even as those stormy, grey eyes stared off into nothing, watching something that seemed like it was beyond this realm. The curls of his auburn hair gently rested over one eye, casting shadows on the back of Mycroft’s neck. 

‘I am not a god, Gregory,’ said Mycroft, softly. ‘I do not decide who lives and who dies.’ 

There was a silence. 

Greg knew that sometimes, he did think of Mycroft as a bit godly. He had abilities and ideas beyond the normal, he could think on a plane entirely his own. There were things about Mycroft Greg knew he would never understand. 

Mycroft also looked otherworldly. He looked powerful, strong, regal. 

But he was vulnerable, sometimes. Greg had seen that. He was vulnerable and he did have emotions. He had a conscience, and seemed to hate violence no matter how good he was at perpetuating it. 

There was so much to Mycroft. So much there to watch and learn and listen to. 

Greg stepped up beside Mycroft. 

‘I know you’re not a god,’ Greg murmured. ‘I’ve never thought of you as one. You were made out to be _like_ one, especially by Dimmock and all of the other people in the Capitol. They called you the Great Tactician. 

‘But just like my Silver Knight thing, we may both be that person, but… well, I don’t think I’m really a Silver Knight, and you’re not really some sort of godly, otherworldly force. You look the part, and you have the ability to _be_ the part, but if you were _actually_ that person, I wouldn’t be falling in love with you.’ 

Mycroft looked over at Greg, his eyes wide. 

‘Astonishing,’ Mycroft breathed, reaching out a hand to lay it on Greg’s jaw. 

Greg grinned. ‘Not really, love. Just speaking the truth.’ 

That was, of course, the moment that the anthem of the Capitol began to play, and the emblem appeared in the sky. Greg stepped across to Mycroft, and took his hand, silently, offering support he knew that Mycroft needed. 

Slowly, Irene’s lovely face showed up. She was perfectly turned out, those eyes bright and brilliant, peering out over the Arena. Her lips were pert and perfect, and her hair was neatly styled. 

Mycroft squeezed his hand, silently. 

‘Did you know her well?’ asked Greg, quietly. 

Mycroft nodded. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I did. We often trained together, back in the District. I always knew she had a side to her that was rather vicious, and cruel. But I never realised it would go as far as it did.’ 

‘I’m sorry that you had to do that, love,’ said Greg, quietly. ‘I am. I’m sorry for this whole fucking mess.’ 

‘It is not your fault, Gregory, as much as it is not mine, or anyone’s. It is what it is.’ 

‘I know,’ Greg said. ‘But that doesn’t stop me from being sorry about the whole thing.’ 

Irene’s face disappeared from the sky, alongside the final strains of the anthem. Once it was gone, and the sun was dipped below the horizon, the entire Arena was bathed in darkness. The sea of water below them roiled and fought, crashing gently in the silence of night. 

‘Gregory,’ Mycroft murmured, turning to him, a slightly conflicted look on the other Tribute’s face. ‘I wish we had more time. I do not make wishes lightly. They are an expression of the desperation of man, but I find I am increasingly more and more desperate. I wish we had more time. I wish I were a god, so I could snap my fingers and give us all the time the world can possibly grant us.’ 

Greg softened, and stepped towards Mycroft, silently, leaning forwards to press against the taller Career. 

‘I wish we had more time, too,’ Greg said, softly. ‘Because I think with just a bit more time, I could love you.’ 

‘I feel the same, Gregory. I do. I do not abide sentiment, as my brother will attest. For me, sentiment has always seemed this horribly obscure thing, the realm of those with weaker minds and weaker hearts. But I rather find myself in a predicament, here. I find myself increasingly realising that I would love you. If I had the chance and the time, I would love you more than the ground under my feet, and the air in my lungs.’ 

Greg could feel the tears, pressing heavily against his eyelids. 

‘Look at you,’ he whispered, ‘All romantic.’ 

Mycroft smirked. ‘You do seem to bring out the best in me, Gregory.’ 

Greg made a decision. 

He smiled, and stepped back, taking Mycroft’s hand. ‘Come back downstairs?’ he asked Mycroft, quietly. 

Mycroft nodded, biting his lip. 

***

Greg tugged Mycroft back through the balcony window, into the room. Letting go of Mycroft’s hand for just a moment, he took up the flint and steel that was waiting for him on the edge of the fire, striking it and lighting the fire up. 

The warmth of the flames immediately leached through the room, bathing Greg in head to toe with heat. Not that there wasn’t plenty there already, of course. 

Turning, Greg looked back over at Mycroft, watching that face in the flickering light of the fire. It was astonishing, really, how those slate grey eyes could change and morph so quickly. Mycroft had his bottom lip between his teeth, seemingly quite unsure. 

Greg smiled a soft, slow, dirty smile, stepping back from the fire and slowly unbuttoning his trousers, letting them fall from his legs in a whisper of fabric. 

Immediately, Mycroft’s eyes darkened, going straight to Greg’s crotch. Greg’s erection, which had immediately come to life, tented his boxers, and Greg watched as Mycroft’s tongue came out, and licked over his bottom lip. 

Mycroft’s face had been transformed, entirely, when Greg removed his trousers. Instead of the slightly unsure look in his eyes, Mycroft was now back to that predatory look that sent frissons of heat straight up Greg’s spine.

And, this time, thankfully enough, there was no pain. 

Mycroft hesitated, his expression flickering over his face. If Greg didn’t know better, he’d say Mycroft was insecure. 

Suddenly self-conscious, Greg looked down at his feet. ‘What’s wrong?’ 

‘Cameras,’ replied Mycroft, his voice soft, a warning. 

Greg bit his lip. Mycroft had a point. 

And yet, at the same time, he felt like he had been waiting his whole life for this moment. He felt as if everything in his life was working up to this time, and this was going to likely be the only time they had. He was going to die soon. There wasn’t any question about it. 

If he didn’t take this now, then he would never get to have it at all. 

Looking up, Greg reached out a hand towards Mycroft. 

‘I don’t care,’ he murmured. ‘Not even a jot. One of us isn’t gonna walk out of here, Mycroft, if we don’t take this now, we’re never gonna get a chance for it.’ 

Greg knew he had let a little of the sudden desperation he was feeling had bled into his voice. It seemed to have done the trick, though. 

Mycroft prowled forwards, pacing with all the grace and elegance of a tiger. His eyes were just ringed with the palest grey, the rest of the iris consumed by the blackness of dilated pupils. 

Silently, the Career stepped around the fire, and stood in front of Greg, who turned to face him. Mycroft reached out a hand, tracing the line of Greg’s newly healed gash, then down to rest over his cock. 

‘Shit,’ Greg gasped out. ‘Oh God. Please.’ 

Mycroft smirked, and looked up at Greg, taking a step closer, and drawing Greg’s jaw to his own. Thumbing Greg’s chin, Mycroft possessively laid his lips over Greg’s own, consuming his mouth in a fiery kiss. 

His other hand slowly worked over Greg’s cock, fondling it and stroking it from outside the thin layer of fabric that protected it. 

Greg had to lean his head back to let out a gasp, which Mycroft took entirely in stride, seizing the opportunity to work over Greg’s neck in a series of small nips and licks. 

‘Jesus, Mycroft,’ Greg hissed out. 

‘What do you want, Gregory?’ asked Mycroft, softly, but with a salacious twist to his words the pooled right at the base of Greg’s spine. 

‘Everything,’ Greg replied, softly, reaching his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders. ‘Everything you can give me.’ 

‘That is a lot,’ murmured Mycroft. 

Greg hummed in response, working a hand under Mycroft’s shirt and tugging at it, as harshly as he possibly could. Mycroft chuckled, but released Greg. 

Immediately, Greg took the opportunity to lay back down on Mycroft’s large sleeping bag, waiting expectantly. Mycroft smirked, and then worked his shirt off over his head. 

Greg had seen the planes of Mycroft’s chest once before, but this time, he had his moment to rake his eyes over the luscious curves of Mycroft’s pectorals. Running his eyes down, he realised Mycroft didn’t have as much muscle definition in his stomach as Greg had previously thought, but there was still the ripple of strength beneath the pale skin. 

‘Take them off,’ Mycroft instructed, his voice purring over the words. 

Scrambling, Greg removed his boxers, sliding them off his hips and down, as Mycroft watched. His cock sprung free from its prison, leaping up to slap the head against Greg’s navel. Sighing at the sensation, he reached down and wrapped a hand around the turgid length, only to hear a tutting from Mycroft. 

‘None of that, Gregory dear,’ Mycroft murmured, his voice dark and predatory, almost gravelly in its arousal. 

Greg groaned, biting his lip, but did as he was told, releasing his cock and laying his hand by his side. He turned his eyes back up to Mycroft, who smirked, and began to work open his own trousers. 

Slowly, Mycroft revealed his own manhood, sliding his pants off with an almost pornographic smoothness. Greg’s eyes immediately went to Mycroft’s erection. 

It was long, like the man himself, and of a considerable girth around. Mycroft’s cock looked like a mouthful, and Greg immediately began to salivate. He had sucked another man off before, but never someone as… large as Mycroft seemed to be. 

But Greg didn’t just want to suck it. He wanted something much more from Mycroft’s cock tonight, and he was going to fucking get it if it was the last thing he did on this earth. 

Scrambling, Greg reached out for his own bag, remembering the cheap ointment he had in there, given to him by the sponsors. Probably not what it was intended for, but it would make do. 

He held it out to Mycroft, who was still standing over Greg, looking down on him with his cock bobbing heavily between his long, pale legs. Mycroft leaned over and took it from Greg’s grasp without a word, just a raised eyebrow. 

Greg nodded, and then held out his hand to Mycroft, beckoning the other Tribute to lay down on top of him. 

It was a lovely thing, to be able to spread his legs for Mycroft, have the taller Career lie between them and press Greg down into the plush sleeping bag beneath them. The heat of it was intense, roaring through Greg’s veins and lighting him up from the inside. Mycroft’s cock pressed heavily against his own, sending curls of heat through Greg’s body. 

Mycroft sighed, and rested his whole weight over Greg. Greg enjoyed it, enjoyed the feeling of it, especially the lack of pain from his scarred-over gash. It gave Mycroft room to work his arm around Greg threading fingers into his hair, and tugging gently, pulling Greg’s mouth up to meet his own. 

Greg went, willingly, pressing his lips into Mycroft’s and allowing Mycroft to dart his tongue inside, thrusting and licking. Greg let a moan travel out his mouth into Mycroft’s, even as Mycroft’s slicked hand worked between their bodies, and took both their cocks in his long-fingered fist. 

The sensation of tight, wet, hot heat had Greg gasping into Mycroft’s mouth. He could feel the corners of Mycroft’s lips turning up into a salacious little smirk. 

Gasping, Greg leant his head back to speak. ‘Jesus… Mycroft. Mycroft please…’ 

‘Please what, Gregory?’ asked Mycroft, purring the question into Greg’s neck. 

‘ _Fuck me,’_ Greg demanded, ‘Now. Please. God, please.’ 

‘As you command, my love,’ Mycroft murmured, releasing their cocks and reaching back, using his other arm to prop himself up. 

Greg wrapped his legs around Mycroft’s waist, even as the long fingered Career worked his hand over the furl of Greg’s hole. 

‘ _Shit,’_ Greg swore. ‘Fuck.’ 

‘Language, my dear,’ Mycroft tutted, teasingly, even as he circled his finger around Greg’s entrance. Greg whined, and writhed on top of the sleeping bag, underneath the tall Career. Winding an arm around Mycroft’s back, and another down to cup the other Tribute’s arse, he squeezed. 

Mycroft smiled, suggestively, then, in a move that shocked Greg, he pressed his first finger through that tight ring of muscle, all the way in past the second knuckle. 

Greg positively threw his head back, and cried out. Mycroft’s finger was long and talented, crooking at just the right angle to hit that spot inside him that could drive any man batshit insane. 

‘Perfect,’ Greg hissed out, ‘That’s perfect, Mycroft… shit, fucking perfect.’ 

Greg knew he was babbling, but Mycroft didn’t seem to mind, particularly not from the twitch of Mycroft’s cock against his leg, and the way Mycroft leant down to thrust his tongue possessively into Greg’s mouth. Suckling on the smooth muscle, Greg closed his eyes tightly, revelling in the sensation of Mycroft’s long finger thrusting in and out of his hole, and the sweet movement of Mycroft overtop him. 

His hand threaded into the curls at the base of Mycroft’s neck, while the other clawed at Mycroft’s arse. Everything else was gone, there was nothing outside them, and this room, right this very second. No cameras, no Capitol, no Moriarty, just them, together, in a tiny room and nothing else mattered.

Slowly, Greg felt Mycroft’s other finger working into him, stretching him open carefully, but he barely noticed, not while Mycroft was working his mouth so expertly over Greg’s own. Greg whined, and writhed on Mycroft’s fingers, happily tugging at Mycroft’s hair. 

Mycroft himself sighed in Greg’s mouth, even as he thrust his fingers into Greg’s body, in time with his tongue in Greg’s mouth. 

‘Shit,’ Greg swore, tearing his mouth from Mycroft’s. ‘Now, Mycroft. Now.’ 

‘Gregory, I must… just one more.’ 

‘No, Mycroft, it’s fine,’ Greg managed to gasp out. ‘It’s fine, just do it.’ 

‘Very well, my love,’ Mycroft whispered, removing his fingers. Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck, even as his hand disappeared from the clasp of Greg’s body, to be swiftly replaced by the warm, damp, plush head of Mycroft’s cock. 

Then, there was a pause. Mycroft’s stopped, his breaths heavily ghosting over Greg’s face. Greg looked up into Mycroft’s eyes, hazy with pleasure and arousal. The head of Mycroft’s hefty manhood sat right over Greg’s loosened hole, just sitting there, and driving him insane. 

‘Mycroft?’ asked Greg, softly, looking into Mycroft’s eyes to try and glean what he had missed. 

‘Are you certain, Gregory?’ Mycroft questioned, in return. ‘If we… there is no going back. You are aware of that?’ 

Greg let out a gust of air. ‘I know,’ he whispered. Leaning back, he pressed a soft, sweet kiss onto Mycroft’s lips. ‘I want it. This is going to destroy me, Mycroft. I know it. I know it’s going to pull me apart from the inside out and that’s fine. I want it so much. Too much. And as long as you’re happy to sail this boat with me.’

‘I am. Of course.’ Mycroft murmured. 

‘Then do it, Mycroft,’ whispered Greg, reaching up a hand to lay it on Mycroft’s jaw, and draw him into a kiss. 

It was a beautiful, fiery, passionate thing that did burn Greg from the inside out. It set him alight, in a study of fire and brilliance. 

Mycroft pushed inside. 

The burn of stretch was immediate, even as the head popped past the first ring of resistance. Greg keened, writhing underneath Mycroft as he was slowly speared on Mycroft’s hefty cock. 

‘ _Shit,’_ Greg hissed out, from between his teeth. Mycroft himself seemed to have come over a little faint, as the other Tribute pressed his face into Greg’s neck, and bit down harshly. ‘Oh shit, Mycroft, _fuck!’_

‘My love,’ Mycroft murmured into the tanned skin of Greg’s neck, right where he had begun the creation of a large love mark. 

Slowly, but surely, Mycroft had pressed entirely inside Greg, his soft balls pressed right up against Greg’s skin. Instead of moving, Mycroft seemed to just sit there. Greg was immensely thankful for the moment he needed to adjust. 

Mycroft was certainly larger than any man he had ever taken before, stretching Greg out and making the ring of muscle around his entrance ache and burn. It hurt, but the pain was sweet, coiling through his muscles as aroused heat.

Greg knew he was gasping out his breaths, but it just wasn’t enough. 

‘Move,’ Greg requested of Mycroft. ‘Please?’

‘Anything, my dear,’ replied Mycroft, beginning the slow slide out, and then back in again. ‘You are wonderfully tight, my love. Simply marvellous.’ 

The filthy words rocketed through Greg’s mind, echoing around as if Greg had an enormous hall in his head. ‘Jesus,’ Greg hissed out. 

‘So tight, and hot, and wet…’ 

Greg could do nothing but lean his head back and arch his neck. Mycroft seemed to be losing it, just a little bit. His thrusts were picking up in pace, filthy words streaming from the Career’s mouth. 

Greg knew his moans and cries were filling the room, desperately calling Mycroft’s name. 

‘I am going to fill you, my dear,’ purred Mycroft, into Greg’s ear. ‘Fill you with everything I possibly can and then some.’ 

‘Shit,’ Greg swore. _‘Mycroft,_ fuck…’ 

The aching pain and stretch of Mycroft’s cock had subsided, left as just a slow, sweet, soft burn underlying all the pleasure ricocheting through Greg’s bones. 

Greg wanted to die, right this very second, impaled on Mycroft’s cock, Mycroft’s sweet words in his ear. 

Mycroft worked his hand between them, giving Greg’s cock three quick strokes, driving Greg over the edge. Throwing his head back and practically screaming, Greg came all over his belly, between them, splattering white fluid all the way up to his neck. 

He clenched around the thick, steely length deep inside him, even as Mycroft himself bit down on Greg’s collarbone, thrust once, twice, three more times, and then he was flooding Greg’s insides with warmth. 

The flood of warmth sent Greg’s cock twitching, slightly, and spurting out one final, weak release. Spots were dancing behind Greg’s eyelids, sparks popping and releasing. His mind was flooded with Mycroft, Mycroft, _Mycroft._

And everything was on fire. 


	27. Moment

Greg woozily came down from the high of sex with a haze on his mind. The post-sex bliss sat calmly over his mind and his body, and Greg was happy to just bask, for a moment. Lying there, against Mycroft, with Mycroft’s warm, panting breaths on his neck. Mycroft was still overtop him, and his softening length was still buried inside Greg. 

Sighing, Greg arched up into Mycroft, begging a kiss from the taller Career. Mycroft obliged, tipping his head and locking lips with Greg. Slowly, softly, Greg suckled on Mycroft’s tongue, gently teasing it out of the Career’s mouth and into his own. 

Mycroft groaned against him. 

‘You are going to be the death of me, my love,’ Mycroft whispered. 

‘I hope not,’ replied Greg, gently, squeezing Mycroft’s back. Mycroft smiled against the skin of Greg’s neck. 

Slowly, Mycroft leant back, and pulled himself free from the clasp of Greg’s body. Greg let out a groan at the ache. ‘Oh, ow,’ he winced, and Mycroft looked up at him, sparing a moment to stroke up Greg’s flank before carefully taking up a piece of cloth lying nearby, what appeared to be Greg’s boxers, and wiping off Greg’s belly and his own cock. 

Wincing, Greg moved to sit upright, himself, but Mycroft stopped him with a hand on his lower belly, underneath his navel. Surprised, Greg looked down his body at where Mycroft was gazing between his legs. 

‘See something you like?’ Greg teased. Mycroft didn’t reply, just fixing his hungry gaze over Greg’s loosened hole. 

Greg realised, with a start, that Mycroft was watching his own come dribble from Greg’s body. 

_‘Shit,’_ Greg swore, softly. God, that was hot. 

Slowly, Mycroft’s long finger probed at Greg’s entrance, gathering up the come and shovelling it back inside Greg’s loosened, pinked entrance. 

Greg keened, his cock valiantly twitching, but to no avail. _‘Mycroft,’_ he hissed, between his teeth. 

Mycroft paused in his ministrations, looking up at Greg. The dark, pure _hunger_ in those slate grey, stormy eyes was rather astonishing. Greg shivered under that gaze. 

‘Are you alright?’ Mycroft asked, softly, hoarsely. His voice was gravelly, and dark. Greg shuddered, again. 

‘Come here,’ requested Greg, holding out his arms. Mycroft practically leapt to comply, sliding upwards quietly to place his arms around Greg. 

Greg turned his back to Mycroft, allowing the taller Career to slide into place behind him. The softening shape of the other Tribute’s cock slid between Greg’s cheeks, in an almost coy fashion. It was almost a sweet reminder of everything they had just done. 

‘Wonderful,’ Greg whispered. ‘You are… Mycroft, you’re everything.’ 

Mycroft chuckled, darkly, against Greg’s ear. ‘I am certainly not,’ he replied. ‘There are many things out there other than me.’ 

‘I know,’ Greg murmured, teasingly. ‘But… let me have this, for a while.’ 

‘I can empathise with that sentiment, at least,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘I find I would also like to revel in being _everything_ right now. Both of us. Together.’ 

‘Romantic, you,’ Greg accused, mockingly. 

‘You bring it out in me, my dear.’ 

Greg laughed, rocking dizzyingly against Mycroft. Everything felt wonderful, right now. Everything else felt like it was a mile away, they were floating on an island far away from every single other problem in life. 

Mycroft was tracing patterns over Greg’s belly, warm, enticing things studied in long fingers and hot breaths on the back of his neck. 

Every so often, the other Tribute landed soft pecks on Greg’s spine, up to the base of his skull and then down again. 

Greg sighed. ‘It’s not gonna be like this again, is it?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Mycroft, quietly, unwilling to break the silent respect of the moment with speculation of the future. ‘I honestly do not. I have, perhaps, come closer than most to the ability to predict the future, but I am not that knowledgeable. May I satisfy you with the knowledge that I would like nothing more than for my days to be this? At least for the foreseeable future.’ 

‘You read my mind, love,’ Greg whispered back. 

Silently, he returned Mycroft’s own tracing of his stomach by folding the other Tribute’s long hands in his own, clasping them tightly, and holding them against his heart. 

‘Mycroft?’

‘Yes, my dear?’

‘I wish… I wish I could see John. Just one last time. Before I die, I mean.’ 

Mycroft was silent. 

‘I wish you could have met John,’ Greg admitted, quietly. He laughed, a little. ‘I think John would have liked you. He would have taken some time to warm up to you, but he would have ended up liking you, eventually. He’s like that with everyone, really.’

‘Trust issues,’ Mycroft murmured. 

‘Mmm,’ Greg hummed. ‘His parents were killed in front of him. What do you expect?’ 

Mycroft hummed, against the side of Greg’s neck, his lips working over the red love mark that he had left there. It was warm, and Greg could feel where it was sitting, the broken blood vessels aching ever so slightly. 

‘I have a brother,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘I mentioned him to you before. Sherlock.’ 

‘Oh, yeah, I remember,’ whispered Greg, squeezing Mycroft’s arm where it rested against his body. 

‘Sherlock is… perhaps the most special human being ever to walk the planet. Aside from you, my dear. He is… difficult, sometimes.’ 

‘I know the feeling,’ Greg chuckled. ‘John’s quite the handful, when he wants to be.’ 

‘Sherlock constantly wishes to make my life that little bit more… insane. He seems to spend half his time making things explode. It is rather amusing.’ 

‘Yeah, bit of a trouble magnet, is he?’ 

‘Certainly,’ Mycroft replied, chuckling into the back of Greg’s neck. ‘He also relishes in being a goblin. In every sense of the word.’ 

‘So does John,’ Greg said, ‘But we love them anyway.’ 

‘That we do,’ replied Mycroft, squeezing Greg a little tighter. Greg sighed, in happiness, pushing back into the embrace. ‘I have perhaps never loved anything the way I love Sherlock. I went into this for him. In the hopes I could give him a life outside… well.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Greg, furrowing his brow. ‘Aren’t you guys… don’t you guys have a jewellery shop, or something?’ 

‘A factory, my dear. My family, we produce jewellery for the Capitol citizens. But I would rather a world where Sherlock could have the opportunity to do whatever he would like in life. Whatever his tiny, black heart desires.’ 

Greg was silent. 

Mycroft was… gorgeously dedicated to Sherlock, by the sounds of it. Just like he was dedicated to John. 

‘I want that, too,’ Greg confessed. ‘I wish that more than anything, sometimes. I wish John could have had a proper set of parents, not two who were murdered by the regime. I wish I could give John everything he deserves in life, and more.’ 

Mycroft hummed. Greg could feel the corners of his mouth turning up. ‘Sherlock… adores bees. Simply adores them with every part of himself. He is fascinated by the way their society is constructed.’ 

‘What’s so special about bees?’ 

‘They have a unique social structure which Sherlock cites as being far above and beyond what he calls the primitive human social structure.’ 

Greg laughed. ‘He sounds like the kind of boy to call everyone else a peasant.’ 

Mycroft mock-gasped against Greg’s neck. ‘How on Earth did you discern that, my love? Have you been perhaps performing reconnaissance upon us with your secretive training as an invisible spy?’ 

‘No,’ Greg laughed, shaking against Mycroft. ‘I just… get the feeling, you know?’ 

‘I do, rather. Sherlock is the type. He often calls others peasants. Including myself, where objectively we come from the same social standing. However, I must confess, ‘peasant’ is not the worst of his insults.’ 

‘Oh?’ Greg questioned. ‘He has other insults?’ 

‘Yes,’ Mycroft sounded a little vexed. ‘His favourites include; flatulent demon-spawn, elephantine monstrosity, gaseous manatee and small-minded insect.’ 

Greg was in stitches when Mycroft had finished his list. 

‘Are they just the ones he uses to refer to his peasants?’ 

‘No, they are simply the ones he used the morning before I left,’ Mycroft replied. ‘Within the space of ten minutes.’ 

‘Ah. Sounds like he’s fun to be around.’ 

‘He is… rather vexing, I must admit.’ 

‘Sounds like it. What do you think, you reckon he might have gotten on with John?’ 

‘I believe they may have come to some sort of mutual understanding. Most likely to our detriment.’ 

‘Sounds like it, doesn’t it?’ Greg replied. ‘I reckon John would’ve loved him. John loves the ones who are a little different from the normal.’

‘Well, Sherlock can certainly be described thusly,’ Mycroft said. ‘Sherlock is eight, at the moment.’ 

‘Perfect,’ Greg murmured. ‘John is nine.’ 

Mycroft leaned in, and pressed another deep, almost mournful kiss to the back of Greg’s neck. 

‘I think,’ Greg murmured, ‘that Sherlock would have liked it where I’m from, too. I live on a hill, in District Ten, and I farm cattle and chickens, for their milk and eggs. _But_ , and I think Sherlock would like this, there are heaps of bees around the place. There’s one tree, down in a glade at the bottom of the hill, that has an enormous nest of them, just sitting there.

‘Sometimes, John and I would go down there and set up a fire underneath it, smoking them and making the bees a bit hazy. It lets us collect up their honey, and it made a lovely spread for some of the loaves we made with tesserae.’ 

‘That quite sounds like Sherlock’s version of paradise. He simply adores bees, and with the amount of open space you are describing, he would have perhaps had much room to complete his experiments.’ 

‘And quite the willing lab partner in John, I’m pretty certain.’ 

Mycroft pressed a low chuckle into Greg’s shoulder. 

‘I suppose that is a wonderful dream for a late evening, some time,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘Perhaps if we had been born into a different world.’ 

There was silence between them. The silence was comfortable, wonderful. Greg nestled back into Mycroft’s warmth, the softly muscled torso behind him almost aflame with heat. The knees of the taller ginger sat just behind his own, still and motionless in a vision of perfection. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg whispered, ‘When you get out… I know it’s a lot to ask. But when you get out, do you think you could find John? Somehow? Tell him who you are, and tell him… just… tell him, alright?’ 

Mycroft didn’t reply, just burying his face into the back of Greg’s neck. 

‘I know Sally and Molly - my friends - they’ll take care of him. But if you could just go to him. Talk to him.’ 

‘Gregory,’ Mycroft whispered, ‘When I leave here, I plan to do far more than just see John. I will, if I can, care for him and ensure he lives a good life. Just as I would for Sherlock. It is the least I can do for him.

‘There is a world I want to build. A vision of the world in which Sherlock, and John as well, now, will have all the chances they can possibly be bestowed. They shall have a golden future, if it is the last thing that I accomplish.’ 

_‘Mycroft,’_ Greg whispered, the emotion overcoming him, choking him up. The man behind him was a wonder, an absolute marvel of creation and existence and Greg wanted to never let him go. Not ever. 

‘I want to give you everything, as well, Gregory,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘The war has just begun. It will last for as long as it needs to last, for me to build the world that I see.’ 

Greg leaned back into Mycroft, turning his head and nuzzling into the long, regal neck of the ginger Tribute. Mycroft’s eyes were stormy, even in the moonlight, practically glowing. Brilliant, they shone through the darkness. 

Clasping Mycroft’s jaw, gently, Greg turned the other Tribute’s face to his own, and gentled a kiss over those perfect, pursed lips. 

This was everything. Goddamn _everything._

***

This was becoming tiresome. 

Molly hated how much of a routine this had become. Sitting down with a dark, quiet John, next to Sally who tried to maintain her composure the longer the Games went on. Maya, who was trying to console her, and Sam, who constantly became more and more needy, the longer her mother retreated from them. 

It was numbing, in a lot of ways, just watching the days of the Games go past and not trying to feel anything, anymore. It was just all too difficult, after a while. 

John was silent, on the couch, this morning. 

Molly had stopped trying to make him go to school. She had stopped going, herself, most likely for the same reasons John had stopped. The sympathetic, sad looks were there wherever she went. Whenever she went into the village, to trade in the Market for scraps to eat, to school to try and learn through their weighty gazes. 

John was taking it even harder than she was. 

She could see it, in his constantly hunched shoulders and sad eyes and horrible slouch. The dark rings under John’s eyes weren’t getting any better. 

But that was what came when the most important person in your life was constantly at risk of dying. 

Silently, instead of taking her customary seat across the living room, at an angle to the tele screen, this time, Molly sat down next to John, curled up, and held out her arm for the younger boy. 

John came without a single mote of protest, leaning against her side, and closing his eyes briefly, before opening them once more and gazing carefully at the tele screen. 

On screen, the two hosts were talking to one another, exchanging pleasantries before beginning for the day. 

Sally was stiff, on the end of the couch, her arm around Maya’s shoulders. Between John and Maya sat Lottie, leaning forwards to rest her chin on her palms. 

On the floor were Alex and Sam, quietly leaning back against the couch. Everyone was there for John. 

It had, as Molly had realised, become routine for them to all just crowd around the tele screen, on Greg’s worn couch, and hold out silent support for John. John, who needed it the most, and would always need it, now. 

Yesterday had been particularly hard on John. Hard in that he’d had to watch Greg nearly die, again. Sally had told Molly there’d been quite a few nightmares, that night. Not that Molly could blame him.. 

She’d watched the interaction between Mycroft, Greg and James Moriarty, another Career, with nothing but bated breath. Sam had spent most of it with his face buried in her chest, scared. 

Molly herself couldn’t look away. She couldn’t turn her eyes from the horrible picture of everything being torn down. Greg’s sentiment winding both him and Mycroft deeper and deeper into a pit of horrors. 

And Moriarty himself was abjectly terrifying. There wasn’t anything _there._ Nothing human, anyway. Particularly in the way he terrorised that girl, the one with the explosives strapped to her chest. 

Then, of course, there had been the inane voices of the hosts, overtop the action. The two Capitol ninnies had been chattering away about how _exciting_ it was, how intriguing the turn of events was.

_‘And, of course, good morning to you, citizens of Panem! Those who are watching our wonderful Games today… well. We have news for you, don’t we, Claudius!’_

_‘That’s right, Caesar. After we logged off for the evening, well, last night, things certainly heated up for one pair in particular.’_

_‘Ah yes, the audience favourites. And, of course, my personal favourites.’_

Claudius chuckled. _‘Yes, right, and only yesterday you were saying you were rooting for James Moriarty.’_

_‘Everyone loves a good villain,’_ Caesar replied, shrugging in good nature. _‘And every story needs one.’_

_‘Besides that,’_ Claudius said, rolling his eyes. _‘As I was saying, the Silver Knight, Greg Lestrade, and the favourite to win, Mycroft Holmes, had quite the little encounter, late yesterday evening.’_

_‘They did indeed,’_ Caesar waggled his brows. _‘Let’s take a look.’_

The screen with the hosts faded, to open to a slightly edited footage of Greg and that other Tribute, the Career from District One, Mycroft Holmes. The one that seemed ever so slightly terrifying. 

They were talking. Just talking lit up from behind by the setting sun. The words, however, were something else. 

_‘Do you remember what I said to you on the roof in the Capitol?’_

_‘You told me you wanted to consume me.’_

_Yes, I did say that. And it continues to be true. But that is not what I want you to remember.’_

_‘What, then?’_

_‘I told you that I did not plan for you. I did not plan for you to happen. You surprised me then, and you continue to surprise me now. I strongly suspect that you will surprise me as far into the future as I may be blessed by your company.’_

_‘My company ain’t a huge blessing, mate.’_

_‘That, you see, is where you are wrong. You are astonishingly kind and astonishingly brave. I expected all other Tributes I was here with to be cowards. I expected to sweep aside the competition and pass onto the greater war to be fought. This was but the first domino in a line to fall, the first battle to be won. But I find now, my dear Gregory, that it is not going to be so easy. I have had to modify plan after plan for you. It has been no small feat, but I have done it. And I find… I am rather happy to do so.’_

Even Molly was starting to feel quite hot under the collar. Mycroft was purring those words out, positively seducing not just Greg, but everyone watching as well. 

And yet, Molly felt dirty, watching the footage. She didn’t want to see what was clearly a moment between two young people who were far too mature for their age. Two young people who felt something immense for one another. 

She had never seen Greg like that. Never seen him so… swept up in emotion, except perhaps for John. But even then, it was an astounding thing to see, Greg practically whimpering under this Career’s voice and actions and words. 

Across from her, Sally was watching, entranced. 

‘He’s being a fool,’ she murmured. ‘Mycroft’s just trying to earn his trust, so that he’s easier to kill later.’ 

‘I don’t think that’s true,’ Molly replied, quietly. ‘If Mycroft wanted to kill Greg, he could have done it ages ago. Remember that time, early in the Games, when Greg was on that roof and looked over and Mycroft spotted him? Had that been any other Career, I reckon Greg’d be dead.’ 

Sally hummed, thoughtfully, as Molly turned her eyes back to the screen. 

_‘My dear Gregory, I have met politicians and bankers. I have met masters and slaves, leaders and peasants, Gamemakers and Tributes, generals and soldiers, and every single person in between. And I have yet to meet a single person who interests me, surprises me or intrigues me the way you do. I have never met someone who I want to possess more than you, Gregory Lestrade. And I have also never met someone I have wanted to possess me more than you.’_

‘Wow,’ Maya muttered. ‘I don’t… it feels wrong to watch this. It really, really does.’ 

‘I know,’ Molly replied, her voice strained. 

Sally grumbled. ‘It is wrong. Don’t you see? Greg is… Greg may be a bastard, and a fool, but right now, I reckon he’s feeling things he ain’t never felt before. It’s not right for the Capitol to barge in on that. Not right at all.’ 

On the screen, things were heating up quite a bit. 

Soft music began to play in the background, and the lighting of the screen changed ever so slightly. The music was a fair touch, but Molly felt horrible. 

This was private. 

This was a sacred moment where Greg was feeling some things he’d never felt before. He was doing some things he’d never done before and Molly hated watching it. 

And yet, she couldn’t turn away. It was utterly fascinating, and she immediately felt like one of the Capitol ninnies, the fools leeching on another’s private moment for her own entertainment. 

Beside her, John had looked away from the screen, away from his guardian, his _father,_ kissing another Tribute. Another man. 

It was hot, and sexy, and attractive, but also so, so wrong. 

‘We shouldn’t be watching this,’ Maya murmured, turning her face away. Lottie, Alex and Sam had already done so, and Maya herself pressed her face into Sally’s side. 

Silently, Molly and Sally shared a look, before turning away from the screen themselves. Only the sounds were left, the soft strains of romantic music. 

Sure, Greg’s moment was being broadcast to the entire nation. Sure, everyone in the Capitol would be watching like a rabid pack of vultures, lapping up all of what was supposed to be Greg’s, all that private glory, and stealing it for themselves. Taking it away from Greg. 

In what universe was that fair?

Slowly, eventually, the strains of music faded away. 

Caesar, the navy haired host, cleared his throat, politely. 

Sally and Molly, in unison, looked back towards the tele screen, where an image of the two hosts was broadcast. The both of them were looking playfully flustered, and Caesar was fanning himself. 

_‘Well, well, well, ladies and gentlemen. Quite the turn of events, I believe.’_

_‘Indeed it was, Caesar. Although, in the Capitol, there are those who saw this coming from the start.’_

_‘Mmm,’_ hummed Caesar, in agreement. _‘I must admit, from the beginning, they have had quite a bit of chemistry. There were those moments scattered throughout the Games, where I was like; yes. These two are perfect.’_

_‘It does seem that they are made for one another. It’s such a pity, really.’_

_‘Ah yes, the eternally doomed romance. I will remind you, ladies and gentlemen, in the Games, romance hardly ever goes the way we wish it would. The way many wish it would. However, ill-fated romances are always so moving.’_

Dramatically, both hosts wiped false tears from their eyes. 

Molly reached for the remote, for a moment, turning down the hosts who were continuing to discuss the doomed romance between Greg and Mycroft Holmes. 

‘John,’ Molly asked, into the quiet, when the tele screen volume was muted, ‘Are you alright?’ 

Nerve-wracked, she could barely meet the small blond’s eyes. His reaction to the whole thing would likely determine how everyone else would react. 

‘I’m… good,’ John replied. 

She looked over at John, astonished to see the sparkle of happiness in his eyes. Those navy blues were wide, and small dimples were creased in an almost joyful smile. 

‘Greg, he wasn’t really like that. Isn’t really like that,’ explained John. ‘I’m happy for him. Really happy. He gets something he’s always wanted.’ 

‘But… what about… you know. If Greg’s to win, Mycroft has to die. If Mycroft is going to win, then Greg has to die.’ 

John furrowed his brow. ‘That’s true,’ he said, his voice small. ‘But… I don’t know. I’m happy for Greg. Really I am.’

Sally grinned, but Molly could see she didn’t share the younger boy’s sentiment. She knew what Greg had signed himself up for - more heartbreak. 

Not that there was really much more to add, Molly thought. 

God, this sucked. 

Unwilling to continue this conversation much farther, Molly once more turned up the volume on the tele screen. The two hosts were still talking, but now, not as much about Greg. 

_‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, the Games are rather heating up, now.’_

_‘Yes, things are getting close, aren’t they, Claudius.’_

_‘Indeed they are, Caesar. It is wonderfully intriguing. How will this all play out?’_

_‘And, of course, the new alliance.’_

_‘Forged in fire, as they say,’_ Claudius waggled his eyebrows. _‘Or, perhaps something else, in this case.’_

_‘Indeed.’_

Both the hosts burst into laughter, giggling almost maniacally. In the living room, all of them are completely silent. 

Soon enough, the hosts begin to calm. 

_‘However, ladies and gentlemen and all those in between, we have recently gotten news that Greg Lestrade—‘_

_‘—our favourite Silver Knight—‘_

_‘—yes, him. The gash he received at the hands of James Moriarty of District Two is rather infected.’_

_‘Mmm. Infection takes out more than one Tribute in these Games, Caesar. More’s the pity.’_

_‘Well, perhaps they have a chance. Because in addition to our new little romance, a feast has been announced. As we know, now both Tribute alliances require something. In our wonderful Silver Knight’s case, it is the antidote to the poison rushing through his veins.’_

_‘So, Caesar, are you telling us that at that feast, there may be an antidote for our dear Greg Lestrade’s little wound?’_

_‘It rather seems there will be.’_

_‘However, Caesar, something interesting to note is the conversation between the Silver Knight, and the Great Tactician, late yesterday evening after the announcement of the Games.’_

_‘Indeed,’_ Caesar nodded, knowledgeably. _‘It rather seems that the Silver Knight is unwilling to let his new paramour seek out the cure to his ailment.’_

_‘Oh,’_ sighed Claudius, dramatically. ‘ _How tragically noble of him.’_

_‘Then,’_ continued Caesar,‘ _in quite the twist, Mycroft Holmes managed to sedate his dear paramour, allowing him to run out of their little hideout to the Clock Tower.’_

_‘Goodness,’_ sighed Claudius. _‘How wonderful. It shall be interesting to see our dear Silver Knight’s reaction to all this. Now, let us go live to the Clock Tower, the Cornucopia of these Games. We shall watch what happens with bated breath.’_

Waving an arm, Claudius prompts the screen to fade to black, and then a panning shot over the Clock Tower to be shown. The sun in the Arena still sits quite low on the horizon, sunrise only just kissing the horizon. 

Molly let out a gasp she didn’t know she had been holding. 

‘That bastard!’ exclaimed Sally, leaping up from her spot on the couch to pace back and forth. ‘I hope that Mycroft Holmes rots in hell.’ 

‘Why?’ asked Maya. ‘Yes, it was a bit of a dirty trick, but can you really blame him?’ 

‘I think I agree with Maya,’ said Molly, softly, flicking her brown hair out of her eyes. ‘You know how Greg is, Sal. You know how damn stubborn he can be. He would never have let Mycroft go to the Clock Tower to get that medication. And you know Greg needs it.’ 

Sally sighed, the wind collapsing from her sails. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she admitted, quietly. ‘But I still reckon it’s wrong. He shouldn’t have done that.’ 

‘But Greg needs the medication,’ John said, softly. ‘He needs it to live. I’m happy Mycroft is doing that, to save Greg.’ 

Sally collapsed back onto the couch. She knew when John agreed, then it was right. John, the level-headed, mature nine year old. Far too old for his age. 

On the tele screen, the camera was desperately trying to follow Mycroft. However, it was futile. Mycroft had a certain talent for darting around corners faster than the cameras could follow, and the astonishing ability to practically melt into shadow. 

Soon, the cameras simply gave up, and instead, focused on Irene, who, objectively, was easier to follow. The axe strapped across her back was formidable, sharp and deadly, and her astonishing eyes glinted through the dimness of the Arena in the silence before the dawn. 

‘She kinda scares me,’ murmured Alex, from by Maya’s feet. John laughed. 

‘She kinda scares me, too, Alex.’ 

Molly smiled, and pulled John a little closer to her side. 

On the tele screen, both the Tributes had pulled up short, hiding behind various piles of rubble and trees puncturing the asphalt, hesitating from emerging out to the Clock Tower, and the open space. 

For the first time since Mycroft had set off, the cameras got a good look at him. They panned up his body, and Molly could immediately see what had gotten Greg fired up in the first place. 

Mycroft’s body was a long, lean line. He held himself with a casual regality that spoke of grace and ease before a fight. The lick of steel at his side; his rapier, was no laughing matter. The curls of auburn hair on the man’s head were dark in the morning, and those slate grey eyes were dark and focused. 

‘Shit,’ Sally whispered. 

‘My thoughts, hey,’ replied Maya, equally as quiet. Molly didn’t say anything, just carefully patting John on the back. John seemed to rather appreciate it. 

The voice of the Head Gamemaker came over the Arena. 

Mycroft was leaning over, his rapier a silent streak at his side, clearly prepared to run forwards as soon as the feast appeared. 

_‘Tributes, may the feast begin.’_

Then, a trapdoor opened in the floor, and a long table slid up from beneath it, locking into place. On the table were two small bags, one marked with two large numbers, number one and number ten, on either side of the bag. The other was marked with a number one and a number two. 

Each bag clearly represented the two alliances. 

Immediately, as soon as the table had whirred into place, both the Tributes had flashed across the open space, towards the Cornucopia. Mycroft was running at full pelt, his strides long and graceful, as were Irene’s. 

The lick of the rapier at his side was a blur, as Mycroft’s face was open in a snarl, a look only matched on Irene’s face. 

Mycroft, by virtue of his longer legs, reached the table first, snatching up his satchel. Irene came up behind him, her axe raised, and in a single, graceful motion, Mycroft whirled, and held out his blade, blocking Irene’s blow. 

The clash of steel rang out high and loud over the Arena, startling several birds from their perches. 

Irene snarled out a frustrated growl, and Mycroft just smirked, his mouth turning up at the corners. 

Their dynamic was fascinating, even as Mycroft held his blade with one hand, easily blocking Irene’s two handed bear down with her own axe. Mycroft’s other hand was occupied with stashing the bag, carefully. 

‘Wow,’ said John. Molly huffed out a low breath of laughter. 

‘Yeah, I know, right,’ Alex said, agreeing with John. 

Then, as soon as Mycroft had stowed away his bag, he took his rapier in two large, long fingered hands, and turned it in a circle, unhinging Irene’s axe’s catch on his blade. 

The force of it threw Irene backwards, but the other Career quickly regained her balance, her face, once beautiful, was distorted in a snarl so hideous it made shivers run up Molly’s spine. 

_‘Traitor,’_ she hissed at Mycroft. 

Mycroft just chuckled, swinging his rapier casually with one hand. _‘Dear Irene. I believe you should reconsider your options, here. Run along back to the little spider, sequestered in his den.’_

_‘Oh,’_ Irene twitched her head, handling her axe with all the familiarity of someone who knew a weapon well. _‘And give up my chance to kill you, and the little tin can knight in the process?’_

Mycroft tutted, mockingly. _‘Now now, you never could beat me.’_

Irene let out an incoherent scream of rage, and raised her axe. Then, it became a blur of steel and loud clashes, ringing through the tele screen to invade Molly’s ears with its noise. It was unpleasant to listen to, the screech of metal against metal. 

Even John seemed to be a little bothered by it, wincing at the sound, but Alex was leaning forwards, interest blossoming in his eyes. That was a dangerous look to see in any young boy’s eyes. 

Mycroft darted around Irene, slashing across her cheekbone, almost playfully. Irene returned with a quick swing of her axe, the head whistling through the space where Mycroft had been. 

The District One boy was a shadow, a darting, dancing shadow of a man, taunting his fellow District One Tribute. 

_‘Ladies and gentlemen, what we have here is an intriguing match,’_ came Caesar’s voice, overtop the sounds of clashing metal, Irene’s snarls and Mycroft’s utter silence and concentration. _‘This here, is the Woman, and the Great Tactician, and is perhaps the most daring, brutal battle we have seen in a while between two Tributes who are also District mates.’_

_‘Yes, it is interesting,’_ continued Claudius’ voice, _‘Particularly as the Tributes seem so evenly matched. As you can see, both are talented with the weapons they have chosen here, young Mycroft Holmes is quite skilled with his weapon of choice, the broad blade rapier.’_

The hosts fell silent, equally seemingly captivated by the battle as Molly and Sally and all of them, sitting in the house miles away from the action. It almost looked like the two Tributes were sharing a dance, darting, and twirling around one another. 

‘He’s playing with her,’ Molly suddenly realised. ‘Mycroft is going to win.’ 

It was obvious, now Molly saw it. Mycroft was a thing of beauty, grace and poise mixed with a sort of agility and flexibility allowing him to dodge each and every blow. Whereas Irene’s beauty had been tainted. Her beautiful, curled locks were plastered to her head, and her astonishing eyes were narrowed. Blood marred her cheekbones and her forehead, and tiny gashes were obviously flowing blood. 

Suddenly, they broke apart, panting and gasping. 

Even Mycroft was breathing heavily. 

_‘You think we didn’t know about your sick obsession with the tin can knight?’_ asked Irene, panting through her nose. 

Molly saw the moment when Mycroft’s eyes widened. 

_‘We knew, all along,’_ Irene whispered, almost tauntingly. _‘Jim knew. He knew you were going to come when he called, particularly if he had that District Eight bitch in tow.’_

Molly suddenly had the urge to be sick. Clearly, Mycroft was feeling it, too, as his eyes suddenly darkened, and he lurched forwards.

Irene was cackling, a certain insanity playing about the corners of her eyes. 

_‘You know what he calls you?’_ Irene asked, her voice taunting, even as she parried Mycroft’s blows. _‘The Iceman.’_

_‘I am aware,’_ Mycroft gritted out. _‘But no silly little nicknames and attempts to throw me off are going to stop me from killing you, right here and now.’_

_‘Oh,’_ sighed Irene, almost orgasmically, _‘Darling Mycroft. I can see they already are.’_

With a sudden, gleeful swing of her axe, Irene gashed across Mycroft’s forehead, causing him to step back, and fall. Maya and Molly both screamed, and John turned his face away from the screen. Alex covered his face with his hands, and even Lottie turned away. 

Irene sauntered over Mycroft, her axe swinging. _‘Maybe after this, I’ll go over to your precious tower, and watch your precious tin can knight turn into a raving lunatic. I’ll watch him die from Jim’s poison, won’t that be fun?’_

Molly saw the fire in Mycroft’s eyes, and could practically feel the moment of its ignition. Mycroft was a shadow, he was a shadow of a man with a fleck of light by his side, as he launched to his feet, and with a final snarl, plunged his blade deep into Irene’s chest. 

Maya screamed, again, and Sally covered her mouth with her hand. However, John watched almost disturbingly avidly, his eyes curious and wide, as Irene coughed blood. 

_‘You miscalculated, Irene,’_ said Mycroft, softly. 

Irene coughed, her blood dripping from her mouth, before vanishing into the grass. 

Mycroft drew his rapier from her chest, still dripping blood, and let her body fall to the grass. 

_‘Ladies and gentlemen, Irene Adler is dead!’_ announced Caesar, excitedly. _‘At the hands of her own District mate, no less! What a turn of events, ladies and gentlemen. This is quite the duel for the ages.’_

_‘I believe,’_ added Claudius, _‘That these Games will be remembered for generations to come!’_

Molly looked away from the screen, away from Irene’s dead, listless eyes. 


	28. Sunrise

Greg woke to the soft sounds of Mycroft’s breaths on his neck, at the base of his skull. He had woken rather early, the sun still deep below the horizon, and the sky only just pinking. There was a soft, and drowsy quiet to the air, a wonderful feeling after the chaotic nature of the last few days in the Arena. 

It also gave him time to bask in the lovely warmth that he felt, nestled in Mycroft’s long, lean arms. Mycroft’s fingers were tight in his own, one hand clenched in both his own, pressed against his heart. The taller ginger’s other hand was delicately resting around Greg’s lower belly, clenched protectively. 

Mycroft’s morning erection was delicately balanced in the crack of Greg’s arse, just sitting there, waving its hello. 

The feathery, delicate breaths on the back of Greg’s neck stirred his hair, warm and inviting, prompting Greg to turn in Mycroft’s arms. The Career hummed a little, in protest, before re-settling with one arm around Greg’s back, and the other curled up between them, holding Greg’s hand. Mycroft’s gentle, sleepy exhales were now on Greg’s temple, and Greg himself was pressed against the warm skin of Mycroft’s neck. 

Memories of the previous evening rolled through Greg’s head, warming him from the inside out, and with the phantom arousal of sensations experienced the night before. 

Greg closed his eyes, leaning forward to simply breathe in the scent of Mycroft’s skin. His skin was lightly scented, sweet and slightly spicy, the ocean and lightning scent like the finest chocolate on Greg’s tongue. 

That gave Greg an idea. 

Gently, so as not to disturb Mycroft’s sleep too much, Greg rolled the tall Career over onto his back. Immediately, Mycroft’s hands went to his hips, gentling there. Mycroft hummed, in his sleep, but remained beyond consciousness. 

Carefully, Greg lifted himself up on his knees, and reached behind him. He was still quite loose, and a little sloppy from the night before, but he wasn’t quite wet enough. As silently as he could, Greg fumbled for the jar of ointment, and then slid it open, taking a large dollop of it on his fingers, and then penetrating himself. 

It brought back quite a few memories of that shower, the morning after Mycroft had touched him the first time, up on the roof of the Tribute Tower. Stretching himself open just as he had then, and muffling his moans on the back of his hand, being careful not to wake Mycroft. 

As quickly as he possibly could, Greg stretched and slicked himself. Then, reaching down and praying to God that it wouldn’t wake Mycroft, he sharply slicked the other Tribute’s cock. 

Then, holding the thick length by the base, Greg quickly slid down onto it. 

God, how he’d missed that. The wonderful, hot, heavy, steely length of Mycroft impaling him, the width stretching his rim as far as it felt like it could possibly go. This time, Greg couldn’t muffle his moans, letting out a soft, breathless whine from between his teeth. 

Greg just let himself rest there, for a moment. The warmth of the length inside him couldn’t be denied, and he almost couldn’t resist the urge to move up and down. But he didn’t, restraining himself to just grinding, softly. 

Beneath him, Mycroft’s breaths had picked up, and his eyelids were fluttering. The beauty of him was absolutely alluring; soft, pale red eyelashes against high cheekbones, dark, gingery hair curled gently every which way. Those lips, softly parted and alluring, pink in the pale morning light, and that nose, casting a shadow over Mycroft’s face like the regal beauty it was. 

Mycroft’s softly furred chest was smooth and pale, the hairs standing out like those that coated a peach. 

Greg couldn’t help but touch, Mycroft’s length hot, long and wide inside him, and Mycroft’s chest beneath him. Reaching out his fingers, Greg gentled them up the side of the tactician’s face, stroking through those gingery locks a few times. 

Mycroft himself was blinking and twitching, those lips opening and closing a little. 

Inside him, Mycroft’s cock gave a definite twitch. 

_‘Shit,’_ Greg swore, his voice hoarse from sleep, and gave into the urge to move. Sliding up, Greg felt that hot length leave him, brush and tug against his wide, pink rim, and catch, slightly. 

Then, Greg dropped back down, the entire force of his weight behind him. The thrust drove a breath from his lungs, and made Greg throw his head back in absolute ecstasy. 

Beneath him, Mycroft arched his back, and moaned himself, gasping awake very quickly. It was slightly amusing to watch the Career come awake so suddenly, blinking large, beautiful, grey eyes up at Greg. 

‘Gregory, my love… what…’ Mycroft began, and then Greg raised and dropped himself once more. _‘Oh,’_ Mycroft sighed out, arching his neck, and if it wasn’t the most gorgeous thing Greg had ever seen. 

Leaning down, Greg sighed, and collapsed onto Mycroft’s chest, allowing the taller Tribute to put his arms around Greg’s waist tightly. 

‘My perfect love,’ Mycroft whispered, his voice purring and bright, even this early in the morning. ‘Wonderful, Gregory. Simply marvellous.’ 

‘I try,’ Greg snarked back, breathless with arousal. His own cock was pressed against Mycroft’s belly, rubbing as he ground down onto Mycroft’s weighty length. 

Mycroft growled, leaning down to bite at Greg’s neck, nipping at the numerous marks he’d left there the night previous. Greg sighed, happily, leaning into Mycroft’s touches and clutching at Mycroft’s hips. 

Leaning his head back a little, he begged a kiss from the other Tribute, to which the Career complied without hesitation. Mycroft’s tongue plundered Greg’s mouth, taking no prisoners. 

Running a hand up Mycroft’s taut chest, Greg wrapped an arm around his neck, and clung tightly, unwilling to let go. The sensation of Mycroft’s warmth not only in his arse but in his mouth as well was heavenly, and Greg kind of wished he could climb inside the tall Career, and be held there. 

Mycroft was treating him like something precious, gentle caresses and soft touches, a passionate, warm kiss without sharp edges. 

Breaking away, Greg looked into Mycroft’s eyes, watching the deep interplay of blacks and greys and the ever so slight shimmer of blue, glimmering right there on the edge of those brilliant eyes. Mycroft returned the gaze, equally, pressing their foreheads together and allowing Greg to rock, to bury that length deeper within himself. 

Not enough. Not yet. Not anymore. 

Greg didn’t really know. 

Leaning forwards, Greg slid over to Mycroft’s ear. Sharply, he took one lobe into his mouth, and worked his teeth over the soft flesh, biting down sharply. Mycroft let out a shocked moan, right next to his own ear, and those long, soft fingers that had been so gentle before now turned into claws, burying into the soft flesh of the globes of Greg’s arse. 

_‘Fuck me,’_ Greg murmured, his voice salacious and obscene. 

Next to him, Mycroft let out a growl. ‘Are you certain, my dear?’ 

_‘_ For _God’s_ sake, Mycroft, fuck me like you mean it.’ 

Mycroft let out another moan, and then a deeper growl, a purring thing that resonated through into Greg’s own chest, and rumbled all the way down through Mycroft’s belly and into Greg’s own cock, pressed as it was against the taller Career’s navel. 

In one, sharp movement, Greg was pulled off Mycroft’s cock, and flipped, so he was on all fours below the Career. Letting out a huff of surprise, Greg complied, easily, even as Mycroft’s cock thrust sharply back inside, setting off another burn right at Greg’s entrance. 

_‘Shit,’_ Greg swore, quietly, ‘Oh _fuck_ , love.’ 

‘That is the idea,’ replied Mycroft, his voice deep and purring. A long-fingered hand pressed between Greg’s shoulder blades, pushing him down into the soft sleeping bag below him. His arms, already shaky in holding him up, collapsed, dropping his head and shoulders into the ground. 

Greg keened, as Mycroft thrust once more, and slammed straight into that spot, deep inside him, that sent him _insane._ Mycroft’s warm weight leant over Greg’s back, until his warm, wet, soft lips were right by Greg’s ear. 

Sharply, the ginger began to nibble on the rim of Greg’s ear, working at it with teeth and tongue. His cock was slamming into Greg’s hole, forcing tiny, huffing breaths out of Greg. 

‘Is this satisfactory, my love?’ asked Mycroft, salaciously. ‘Or would you like more? Are you enough of a tart to ask me to fuck you harder, perhaps?’ 

‘Oh, fuck me,’ Greg gasped out, arching his neck. 

‘Mmm, I can feel myself still inside you, you realise,’ Mycroft whispered. ‘You did not clean yourself out. You liked it, didn’t you? You liked feeling me inside you as you slept.’ 

‘Yes,’ Greg gasped out, ‘I fucking loved it, Mycroft. Just like you like seeing it dribble out of me.’ 

Mycroft chuckled, in Greg’s ear. ‘I do, rather, don’t I? It is somewhat primitive, I know. But I do rather enjoy seeing that tangible mark of myself inside you, upon your skin. Are you mine, Gregory?’ 

Greg didn’t reply, too caught up in the dual sensations of Mycroft’s words in his ear and Mycroft’s length pounding into him. Mycroft bit at his skin, sharply, reprimanding. 

‘Gregory?’ he repeated, purring the words into Greg’s ear. ‘Are. You. Mine?’ He emphasised each word with another sharp bite to the back of Greg’s neck. 

‘Fuck, oh, fuck,’ Greg cried out. ‘Yes! Yes, I’m yours, Mycroft! Please… God, please…’ 

‘If you are truly mine, then ask,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘Ask me.’ 

‘Fuck me harder!’ howled Greg, his mouth wide and pleading. ‘Harder, God, please, harder!’ 

Mycroft smirked, approvingly, against Greg’s skin, before latching his mouth and teeth to the skin of Greg’s back, leaning on one elbow to grasp Greg’s cock in his fist, and began to truly and utterly destroy Greg. 

Length sliding quickly in and out of Greg, and hand blurring over Greg’s own erection, Mycroft’s teeth buried themselves in Greg. It forced a scream out of Greg’s lungs, arching his neck and calling out to the heavens. 

He knew he was screaming Mycroft’s name, if the mix of consonants and vowels could be called as such. 

This… this was a far remove from the previous night, where Mycroft and he had made love, in every sense of the word. Mycroft had made love to Greg with a soft and tender care, gently opening him and treating him as if he had been made of glass. 

But now, now, this was _fucking._ This was, in many ways, Mycroft staking a claim on Greg, and Greg doing the same to Mycroft. 

‘Come, my love,’ Mycroft commanded, squeezing Greg’s cock tightly and slamming into that sweet spot inside him. 

Greg cried out for a final time, louder and more high pitched than ever before. Stars sparkled to life behind Greg’s eyes, shooting through and lighting Greg up, inside and outside. 

As Greg came, violently, not only all over himself but all over the sleeping bag beneath them, Mycroft grunted. Greg clenched down, tightly, around Mycroft, even as Mycroft thrust just a few more times, and then he too, was coming. 

The final spurts of Greg’s release were fuelled by the sensation of Mycroft’s warmth and seed filling Greg, adding to what was already there. 

Greg swore, quietly, at the sensation, as Mycroft tightened his grip around Greg and pounded into him, forcing that warmth against the sweet spot deep inside him. 

It was only after a few more weak thrusts that Mycroft loosened his hold, and his teeth, in Greg’s shoulder. Gently, as ever, Mycroft pulled himself out of Greg, softly tracing a path over the curve of Greg’s arse and thumbing at his hole. 

Panting, his legs too weak to really hold him up, Greg fell to the side. Mycroft followed him down, gently reaching over to press a kiss to Greg’s temple. 

Greg laughed, lowly, even as Mycroft smiled. 

‘Wow,’ Greg murmured, the perfect summary for this particular turn of events. Mycroft himself smiled a little at that, carefully laying down behind Greg. 

‘Are you alright, my love?’ asked Mycroft, quietly, after a moment. ‘I did not hurt you?’ 

‘No,’ replied Greg, quietly nuzzling up against the side of Mycroft’s face. ‘That was… just… perfect. Fucking perfect.’ 

Mycroft smirked, the predatory look in his eyes back once more. Greg only smiled, in reply. ‘That look,’ Greg gestured, ‘right there, that’s why I found you so… I don’t know. What’s the word for it? Captivating.’ 

‘Truly?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg confessed, quietly. ‘It was one of the first looks you gave me. I mean, I found you captivating from the moment I watched you step up onto stage at the Reaping, but that was the first time. You gave me this look, right after the Opening Night.’ 

‘I remember,’ replied Mycroft, quietly. ‘I was entranced by you, as well. You looked stunning, reflecting all the light off your armour. You truly looked like a character out a storybook, a brave, strong knight come to save the princess from the dragon.’ 

‘And you looked like a prince,’ Greg shot back, then corrected himself. ‘No, you look like a king. You looked like a king then, and you look like one now.’ 

‘I do not believe in monarchy,’ replied Mycroft, quietly. ‘But I do hope to one day be a great leader. If that is your definition of a king, then I shall gladly accept.’ 

‘You will be,’ Greg promised, quietly. ‘I wish I could see it.’ 

Mycroft sighed into Greg’s neck, pressing a soft kiss against that spot. He didn’t comment, didn’t say anything at all. 

They lay there a moment longer, before Greg got to his feet, his limbs creaking a little. The sweat had cooled on his body, and was slightly unpleasant. 

‘Have a wash with me?’ Greg requested, quietly, holding out a hand to Mycroft. The air had turned a little somber, a far remove from the more joyful, energetic events of the moment.

Mycroft accepted the hand, allowing Greg to tug him away to scrounge for something to dry himself off. 

***

The minutes after the wash found Greg sitting on the roof of the building, Mycroft by his side. Leaning back against Mycroft, Greg sequestered his head deep in the crook of Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft himself wrapped an arm around Greg, holding him there and watching the sun slowly meander from dipped below the horizon, to higher up, and the sky turn from purple to pink to pale blue. 

There was an odd heaviness to the air.

‘Something’s coming, isn’t it?’ asked Greg, a moment later. The younger Tribute tightened his arm around him, and gentled a kiss onto Greg’s temple. 

‘Yes,’ replied Mycroft, quietly sad. ‘There is. There are only three of us left. The Gamemakers know we aren’t going to turn on one another. Thus they will try and drive us towards Moriarty today. Or Moriarty will be driven towards us.’ 

‘What do you want to do?’ 

‘I should ask you the same thing,’ murmured Mycroft. 

Greg sighed, raising his hand and taking Mycroft’s other hand in his own, fiddling with the long, metaphorically bloodstained fingers. 

‘Mycroft, is it wrong to want this to be a special place?’ asked Greg, quietly. ‘Is it wrong to want this spot, this building to be left out of the final fight?’ 

‘No,’ replied Mycroft. ‘I feel the same way. To the shore then?’ 

‘I think so,’ Greg said, softly. ‘This place… I don’t know. It feels like _ours,_ if that makes sense. Our spot to just… have been. For a little while.’ 

‘I do understand, Gregory. I… this time, I have spent with you, it means more to me than perhaps anyone will ever comprehend.’ 

Greg sighed, and leant back against Mycroft, watching the sun rise. After everything, Mycroft was right. ‘This has been everything, Mycroft. You know that? Just… everything.’ 

‘It has been, rather,’ Mycroft murmured, and pulled Greg in for a deep kiss, passionate and strong with the depth of longing and wishing between them. 

A wish for more time, Greg pressed into the kiss. A wish for time and space for them to just be. No one watching them, but days and nights like these, days of silent comprehension and love between them, talking and reminiscing. 

Greg wished for a day, twenty four hours, with himself and Mycroft, and John and Sherlock, even. Just a day, for them to play and talk and laugh and just fucking _be._ One night for them to all curl into a puppy pile, for him to have John in his arms and Mycroft at his back. 

For John to perhaps have a friend. 

Or even a night to just have Mycroft. Have Mycroft in him, be inside Mycroft, to fuck and love and sleep and just do all of those things. 

It wasn’t enough. 

Greg didn’t think anything would ever be enough. 

But he would give everything up for just a single day. Just one day, like that. 

‘I want, Mycroft,’ Greg whispered, into those soft lips. ‘I want so much for us to just be. To be us for just a little while. I want that with everything in me.’ 

‘I want too, my love,’ Mycroft replied. ‘I want it perhaps more than I have ever wanted anything in my short life. And I am not too hasty as to say I love you, but in time, I would. I would love you to the ends of the earth.’ 

Greg smiled, and leaned back into the kiss. 

***

They pretended like they were coming back. They pretended like they were just popping out to the shore to get some more meat from Mycroft’s traps. All of the supplies they had collected were left, only the bare essentials left in Greg’s back pack. 

Mycroft’s rapier was shining, and sharp, as was Greg’s sword. The jar of slick was left sitting on the edge of the fireplace, right next to the sleeping bag they shared, made up perfectly and neatly as if they would return in a few hours and fuck on top of it like animals in heat. 

The precious medicine that had healed Greg so well yesterday was sitting inside a pouch, tucked into Greg’s back pack along with the essentials. 

Everything else, they left behind. 

Quietly, Mycroft closed the door, that had been hanging off its hinges, and silently, Greg said goodbye. 

Not just to that room, but to everything it represented. 

They had no future. None. 

He was going to die, and Mycroft was going to win the Games. Mycroft was going to go on to be a shining star, rising high in the world and bringing life wherever he went. He was going to be a leader, a politician, a king, and everything else. 

He was going to build a brand new world from the inside out if he had to. And Greg was going to have to content himself in that knowledge, in his last few hours. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg murmured, as they stepped down the stairs and out onto the land bridge. ‘Mycroft, I’m scared.’ 

Mycroft turned to Greg, his eyes silently understanding. He opened his arms, and Greg was ashamed to say he practically leapt into them, standing out there on the land bridge. 

‘Do not be fearful. Death is but the next great adventure, as a wise man once told me.’ 

Greg chuckled, and learn back, pecking a kiss on the underside of Mycroft’s jaw. ‘Is he dead?’ 

‘Yes,’ Mycroft replied, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smirk. ‘Come along, Gregory. We must make haste. We are awfully exposed up here.’ 

Greg nodded, and walked away from the sky scraper, taking Mycroft’s hand in his own in a silent gesture of comfort, support and just… being together. That was what mattered, really, in the end. In the end, Greg was going to have had all this time with Mycroft. All this time, as short as it may have been. 

He had this time to be in love. To be with the most magnificent man he had ever met, he had ever seen. And that was what mattered. It was what he had to cling to. 

Mycroft’s hand in his own, the memories of their time together, and times before that. Quiet, soft times sitting on the bed back home with John, reading out to him small stories and tales. Loud times, where Molly and Sally and the whole crew got together, had fun, played games, and laughed. 

That was what he had to remember. That was what was most important. 

***

Between them, they caught and killed around five rabbits, enough to last them for a week. They wouldn’t need that many, Greg knew. But it was better to be safe than sorry. 

The sun was still sitting on the morning side of the dome of sky, but as they walked back through the trees and run down, overgrown buildings, emerging out onto the shore, the water lapped high.

Standing beside Mycroft, Greg looked out over where the land bridge should have been, but was gone. It had been flooded over, as deep as it was at high tide. 

‘Could we swim?’ asked Greg, quietly, already kind of knowing the answer. 

‘No,’ replied Mycroft. ‘Look over there.’ 

Pointing, he gestured to a roiling patch of water, fighting against itself and whipping the liquid up into a frenzy, far more than was natural. 

‘Is that…’ 

‘Sharkers,’ said Mycroft, quietly. 

Sharkers were _mutts,_ Capitol-made mutations combining the features of two species. Greg remembered learning about them, in his small school back in the District. Warnings about their release, over in the sea. Swim out too far, and you could be taken by them. Vicious creatures, used to protect the borders of Panem from what was named as something far worse. Greg couldn’t even begin to imagine what it could be. 

‘So, no swimming, I suppose.’ 

‘Yes,’ Mycroft murmured. Greg looked over at him, squeezing his hand silently. 

‘We both knew,’ he whispered. ‘We knew we weren’t going back. I didn’t want to believe it, truly. I didn’t. But… well.’ 

Mycroft nodded. ‘The finale will occur on shore, now. The end to these Games.’ 

‘Soon, I think.’ 

‘Yes,’ agreed Mycroft. ‘Very soon. They are growing impatient, I believe. We have been rationing the drama with far too slim a hand for their tastes.’ 

‘What does it matter, anymore, Mycroft?’ asked Greg, helplessly. 

‘There is a far larger war to be fought,’ commented Mycroft. He took Greg’s jaw in one long fingered hand, turning him to face the taller Tribute. ‘And you and I? We matter. Together.’ 

‘Together,’ Greg nodded. ‘As long as we can be.’ 

Mycroft didn’t say anything. 

Silently, as one, they turned back to walk away from the shore, back into the urban jungle. 

***

‘Hey Mycroft,’ called Greg, after a few hours of walking. ‘I reckon that one there looks promising as a bit of a hole up spot.’ 

‘Oh?’ asked Mycroft, looking where Greg was pointing. Greg nodded. 

‘Yeah, look, the main entrance is all choked up so Moriarty will have to try and find a back entrance or something. And it’s not too close to other buildings so he can’t just leap over the roofs and down on top of us.’ 

‘I believe you may be right,’ replied Mycroft, smiling softly, affectionately, at Greg. Greg returned the smile. 

He felt like a complete and utter sap as he did so, but it was an invigorating thing. It was almost like he was a young boy, after his first romance again. That was what Mycroft was doing to him. 

They ambled their way towards the building, Mycroft entirely relaxed and soft beside him, the rapier only flicking back and forth to let Greg know that Mycroft perhaps wasn’t as relaxed as he seemed. 

However, Greg didn’t comment. 

‘I’ll go that way, alright? Look around in that direction to find a spot to get inside?’ 

‘Yes,’ nodded Mycroft.

Greg frowned. Mycroft had been full of nothing but minimal word responses as the day had worn on. It seemed that the entire thing was fraying his nerves, and he was trying his hardest to cover it up. Greg had tried to coax it from him, opening him up with soft kisses and quiet words. But Mycroft had not yielded, remaining tense. 

Greg couldn’t really blame him. He was tense, too, with the thought of what was to come. The grand finale. 

The Gamemakers in years’ past had always made a bit of a fuss of it, the final battle of the Games. The final duel, usually, between the last two Careers for the crown of these illustrious Games. 

It was horrible, in a lot of ways. 

Greg tried to cast it from his mind. 

‘Will you go the other way?’ 

Mycroft simply nodded, pressing a sharp kiss to Greg’s lips, before darting off into the shadows. Greg grinned, and turned around himself, walking ‘round the side of the building, tracing his hand along the wall in search of a way inside. 

For a brief moment, he considered that last kiss. 

It had an edge of desperation to it that, while it had edged the rest of their kisses that day, had been perhaps a little more desperate. It was harsh, and deep. 

As if Mycroft knew something he didn’t. 

Casting it from his mind in favour of the warmer, almost sunnily joyful memories of the morning, Greg continued around the side of the building. 

Then, he heard something. 

Immediately, everything his father had taught him kicked in, and he stopped, raising his blade to a ready position, and swinging around so his back was to the wall of the building.

Looking around the trees, he tried to figure out where it was that the sound had come from. It hadn’t been from him, it had definitely been from someone else, wandering around out there. 

Maybe it was Moriarty. Maybe it was just another animal, wandering around as animals were wont to do. 

But Greg had to admit, every part of him had been on hyper alert since that morning. 

‘Hello, my dear tin can knight.’ 

The soft voice of Moriarty sang out of the trees, as the Tribute himself melted from the shadows, just like Mycroft could do. The whip was lashing back and forth at his side, and there was a sort of spiky, spiny anger to Moriarty’s actions and stance. 

Greg stepped forwards, his sword ready, and his eyes trained on Moriarty for any sort of movement. 

Moriarty let out a giggle. ‘Do you honestly believe you can even attempt to fight me? Me!’ 

Greg didn’t reply, didn’t rise to the bait. He couldn’t afford to. 

Suddenly, Moriarty started forwards, drawing a knife out of nowhere. Luckily, Greg managed to get his sword up in time, and block the blow that had been aimed at his torso. 

The two blades collided in a sudden clash of steel, bright and hot. Moriarty was grinning. 

‘Ooh, the little knight knows how to use his sword.’ 

Greg gritted his teeth, throwing the knife out from his blade, and then dropping back around to slash at Moriarty’s midsection. He fell short, but it did force Moriarty to back up a few steps, the short range of his knife not enough to compensate for the fact that Greg had nearly a foot of extra reach. 

Then, Moriarty tried the whip, flicking the shining tip out towards Greg’s face. Greg swerved backwards, nearly striking his head on the concrete behind him, but blocked the whip’s path, letting the blow swing out harmlessly behind him. 

‘He has teeth!’ Moriarty seemed to be delighted by the turn of events, wandering around almost aimlessly. 

‘Come closer,’ Greg grinned, in response. ‘I’ll show you I have a bit more than just a few rotten old teeth.’ 

Moriarty laughed out his amusement, but seemed to sober quite quickly. ‘It is a shame, we don’t have all the time in the world. Can’t have Mycroft darling finding you before I want you to be found.’ 

Moriarty began to bear down on him, darting out the whip like the lick of a deadly snake and whirling the dagger in his other hand. 

The blade sang across Greg’s jaw, cutting deep enough to draw blood, but not deep enough to be overly serious. The blood did begin to dribble down his neck, but Greg bore both it, and Moriarty’s onslaught with gritted teeth, as best he could. 

But Moriarty was better. Greg knew Moriarty was better. He was being beaten down, slowly and surely, beaten back against the wall until he was pressed right up against it. 

He couldn’t do it.

The next thing Greg knew, there was a sharp, harsh pain across the back of his head, knocking him into the wall and forcing him to collapse to the ground. 

Spots danced around the edge of his vision, and Greg struggled, and strained to get up again. 

‘Tut tut,’ came the soft voice of James Moriarty, right in Greg’s ear. ‘Poor little tin can knight. But… you must understand, every good story needs a villain.’ 

‘Nnnn…. My…cr…’ Greg couldn’t get the words out. 

‘Oh no,’ whispered Moriarty. ‘Can’t have that.’ 

The surgical slide of another needle into Greg’s upper arm was almost familiar, but Moriarty took none of the care that Mycroft had. Instead, his jab and push was immediate, harsh and painful, fracturing and chipping away at Greg’s fortitude. 

The blackness at the edges of his eyes was too hard to fight, so Greg gave in. 

***

The first thing Greg heard when he woke was the soft, sing-song voice of Moriarty, whispering in his ear. 

‘Wakey wakey, little tin can knight,’ sang Moriarty. ‘Welcome to the final problem, my dear.’ 

‘Nnnn…’ Greg tried, weakly raising a hand and blinking his eyes open. His head was pounding something fierce, and he could feel the bruise forming at the base of his skull, right where Mycroft had pressed a kiss just that morning. 

‘And he’s awake,’ Moriarty smiled, widely and disturbingly. ‘Gregory Lestrade. Finally rallied his minimal brain cells to attempt some sort of thought. How… endearing, wouldn’t you agree, ladies and gentlemen?’ 

Moriarty swept his arms out, grandly, grinning all the while. It was awful to have to watch, and served as a stark reminder that they were live. They were on the screen for all to watch and Greg couldn’t help but send out a silent apology to John for what he was about to see. 

As Moriarty said, he managed to rally the troops. 

‘Are you going to kill me?’

Moriarty actually had the gall to throw his head back and laugh at the notion, as if it was so ridiculous it couldn’t even bear mentioning. 

‘No, no, no, dear fellow,’ replied Moriarty. ‘Not yet, anyway. But dying is boring. Killing is boring. People… they flop about a bit, and then they just go limp. It’s no _fun_ anymore. Not when I’m supposed to do it, anyway.’ 

‘Then what… why?’ 

‘Oh, dear, dear, do you have two brain cells to rub together, or not? No, _Gregory,_ I am not going to kill you yet.’ 

Greg wanted to be sick at the way Moriarty said his name. It was a twisting, a horrible mutation of what was supposed to be something sweet. Something only Mycroft did. Only Mycroft _could_ do, as well. 

‘No, there is another reason you are here.’ 

For the first time, Greg looked around. They were back on a main road, somewhere, trees lining the edges and spurting up from under the asphalt on the road. Weeds grew throughout, and the old husks of cars were overrun by vines and flowers and other forms of plant life. It seemed almost familiar, as if Greg had actually been here before. 

They were in an open space, however. More open than other places, rather. Moriarty was standing over him, where Greg had been dumped on the ground like so much trash. 

The whip in Moriarty’s hand was swinging back and forth, gently, and Moriarty himself had such a gleeful look on his face that Greg wanted to be sick. 

‘You, Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft’s precious jewel, his precious Silver Knight, you are my bait. When you are in danger, Mycroft will come running. Oldest trick in the book, _darling._ Taught to me by a very special someone.’ 

Moriarty immediately threw an almost overly theatrical wink to a tree, where Greg realised a camera must be hidden. 

Then, the madman’s words sunk in. He was going to be bait for Mycroft, just like Suzie had supposedly been bait for him. 

Please, Mycroft. Don’t come looking for me. Soon he’ll get bored, and he’ll kill me, and you won’t be in any danger. 

God, please. 

That was all Greg could hope to do. Pray to the gods, any and all that could possibly exist, that Mycroft wouldn’t come for him. 

‘He’s too clever for that,’ muttered Greg. ‘He won’t come.’ 

‘Oh, he will,’ Moriarty said, gleefully. ‘You’re far too precious, and far too _important_ for him to let me kill you.’ 

‘What does that mean?’ asked Greg. 

Moriarty turned to him, widening those black, heartless eyes in mock surprise, and slapping his hands to his face. ‘You mean, Mycroft never told you the truth?’ 

‘What truth?’ asked Greg. 

Moriarty threw his head back, and laughed once more. ‘Oh, wonderful, wonderful. Simply marvellous. This is going to be such a good day!’ 

Greg’s head was spinning, and his vision was dazed, fuzzy all over, not just around the edges. But there was something here. Something Moriarty thought he knew that Greg didn’t, apparently. 

What it was, Greg couldn’t even begin to think about. 

‘I am present, _Jim,’_ Mycroft’s loud, familiar, gravelly voice calmly filled the clearing. Moriarty looked up, away from Greg, delight in his eyes and mannerisms. His whip tossed a little, by his side, as he dragged Greg up to his feet, stroking a hand over his jaw. Greg shied away from Moriarty, shaking. 

‘Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft. So good of you to join us! We were just having so, much, _fun.’_

Greg looked over at Mycroft, biting his lip. Mycroft was angry, his hackles raised, and the rapier flicking back and forth furiously. He sighed. 

No-one ever fought well whilst angry. 

‘Put it down,’ gestured Moriarty. 

Mycroft gritted his teeth. 

‘Alright,’ sighed Moriarty, ‘I’ll give you some… motivation.’ 

Quickly, Moriarty slipped the whip around Greg’s throat, just like he had done to the District Eight girl at the pool, pulling it tight so Greg’s voice box was pressed up and constricted. 

‘Let’s get started, shall we?’ 


	29. Crescendo

Moriarty’s manic grin would haunt Greg to the grave. Then again, that grave wasn’t too far off, so it might not be the worst thing in the world. The whip around his neck was cold, almost icy cold, and smooth. It felt almost like a sort of cable, wrapped around his neck and holding it in a vice-like grip. Greg could feel it’s pressure on his voice-box, forcing a croak out of his throat. 

He knew he was panicking, a bit, his eyes wide and breaths sucking in and out of his lungs as fast as they possibly could. As if he was never going to feel the sweetness of oxygen inside them again. Which, to be fair, was a distinct possibility. 

Moriarty was slowly tightening it, causing his voice box to press deeper and deeper into his throat. 

Across from him, Mycroft’s eyes were trained on his face. The panic was obvious, Mycroft’s grip on his rapier white-knurled and tight. 

Don’t let it go. Greg tried to plead Mycroft, with his eyes. Don’t drop the rapier, don’t drop it at your feet, for fuck’s sake. Please. Let me die, so you can live. 

Mycroft let out a disgusted sigh, a moment later, and dropped his rapier to the asphalt. It clanged and bounced, and Moriarty smiled, gleefully. 

‘Uphold your end, James,’ instructed Mycroft. ‘Let him go.’ 

Moriarty sighed, but dropped the whip off of Greg’s neck, allowing Greg to suck in desperate lungfuls of air as fast as he could possibly get them down. 

‘Gregory, are you alright?’ asked Mycroft, over the distance. The rapier at his feet glinted orange in the setting sun. 

‘I’m… fine…’ Greg croaked out, raising a hand to rub at his previously constricted voice box. The breaths felt sore, going down his throat. Undoubtably, it was bruised. 

‘Tut tut, Mycroft,’ Moriarty sang, raising a hand to stroke through Greg’s hair. Greg flinched, and Mycroft let out a guttural, possessive growl. Moriarty giggled, delighted. ‘Now now, dear Iceman, don’t be like that. Didn’t Mummy teach you to share your things?’ 

Mycroft snorted. ‘She certainly did not. Additionally, she told both Sherlock and I to kill those who attempted to _steal_ from us, particularly in the Arena.’ 

Moriarty grinned, widely. ‘Shame, really. You aren’t living up to your Mummy’s expectations.’ 

‘How is she to know?’ questioned Mycroft, raising an eyebrow in mock confusion. ‘After all, she is dead.’ 

‘Mmm,’ hummed Moriarty, tapping his chin. ‘She is, rather, isn’t she? Strange, that.’ 

‘Yes,’ Mycroft murmured, ‘Strange.’ 

‘More to the point, aren’t you wondering, darling Iceman, why it is I’ve brought you here? That is, why I’ve _baited_ you here with your precious little tin can knight?’ 

‘Not particularly,’ sighed Mycroft. ‘To be frank, I do not care about you or your _problems_.’ 

Moriarty let out a mock splutter of indignation. ‘I’m hurt, Mycroft, truly. I thought we were just becoming friends?’ 

‘I do not have friends,’ said Mycroft, honestly. Despite that, his eyes were trained on Greg, and Greg could see a certain amount of his own desperate worry, mirrored there in those bright, brilliant grey eyes. 

Moriarty threw his head back and laughed. ‘No, you don’t, do you, dear Mycroft.’ 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. ‘If you’re quite finished, I would like to know the point of these rather rude summons, so I may be on my way with Gregory.’ 

‘Dear me,’ Moriarty sighed. ‘What’s all the rush?’ 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, finally focusing on Moriarty rather than Greg. Good. 

Greg didn’t matter,as much. Not anymore. What mattered was Mycroft surviving, and Greg was prepared to beg him to run, to take up his rapier and run and leave Greg behind. Kill Moriarty himself and then win these Games. 

Go on to change the world, as only Mycroft could do. 

‘What is your plan, Moriarty?’ asked Mycroft, his voice suspicious. 

Moriarty laughed. ‘There is no plan, doofus!’ 

Mycroft bit his lip. ‘You must have a plan, James. That is your _modus operandi._ This is far too simple, too barbaric for you.’ 

‘Ah, but the simplest plans seem to work the best, with you, dear Mycroft. You don’t seem to comprehend that some people aren’t schemers,’ Moriarty’s voice sang, his expression utterly delighted. Greg tried not to be sick. 

‘Then you are backed into a corner, _Jim,’_ Mycroft practically snarled. ‘You have no options here.’ 

‘ _Au contraire,_ mon frère,’ tutted Moriarty. ‘I have _all_ the options. Let me put this more simply for you, Mycroft. Seeing as you seem to need it. Oh, this is such a disappointment. I thought you were clever, I really did. I suppose, the saying is that you should never meet your heroes. They will always disappoint.’ 

‘Do get to the point, _Jimmy,’_ murmured Mycroft. ‘Some of us do have other things to be doing with the time you are currently absorbing from my schedule.’ 

Greg snorted, into his hand. 

‘Your friend here will die. Your tin can knight will die at my hand if you do not come forwards, and sacrifice yourself for him.’ 

There was dead silence. 

The setting sun bathed the small clearing they were in in bright orange, casting enormous shadows that lingered out like tendrils from each figure’s feet. Moriarty’s whip only added to that, thrashing back and forth. At Mycroft’s feet was his rapier, too far from the Career’s hands to do anything. Mycroft himself was biting his lip, that soft, round curve trapped between his pearly whites. His eyes were focused, and dark, and a great deal of anger roiled within them. 

Greg realised that right now, he was seeing Mycroft stripped to the bone. Anger, desperation, and guilt, all waged a war in that figure. The tall Career’s shoulders were tense, his posture wide, his eyes conflicted. Those long, thin brows were furrowed, and a small crease formed between them. 

‘Tick tock, Mycroft,’ Moriarty sang, tapping an invisible watch. ‘We do not have all day, as you pointed out. Who knows what horrors will come creeping out of those trees at nightfall?’ 

Greg looked up at Mycroft, desperately. 

‘Mycroft!’ he called out. Immediately, the ginger looked up at him. Moriarty also looked at him, in interest, seemingly unsure of what he was going to say. ‘Mycroft, please, take your sword and go. Run. Win.’ 

‘Ah ah, little tin can knight,’ tutted Moriarty, ‘I wouldn’t want you to spoil all my fun.’ 

Then, with a sharp crack, he brought the whip straight down over the backs of Greg’s legs, causing Greg to fall forwards at the sharp pain that lashed over him. It was like a brand, across his calves and making his veins ache. 

Greg slammed into the asphalt, his hands tearing up, and beginning to bleed. He could also feel the beginnings of blood pouring down the back of his legs, from the lashing he had received. It had sliced through his flesh quite neatly, hot blood beginning to pool in the backs of his knees. 

Mycroft let out another possessive, rage filled growl, and Moriarty cackled in maniacal glee. Greg collapsed, into the dirt, pressing his forehead against the asphalt and squinting up in pain. Add that to the throbbing of his head, and he had taken such a solid pounding he wasn’t sure if he could make it up to his feet again. 

But Mycroft. Mycroft needed to see him get to his feet. 

So, squeezing his eyes shut and tensing, he scrambled to his feet. The entire thing was entirely ungraceful, but it was going to have to do. Once on his feet, he looked up, brushing the hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand. Blood was pouring out of the grazes on the heels of his hands, aching and sore. Mycroft’s eyes were wide, focused entirely on his face. 

Greg held up a placating hand. ‘I’m alright,’ he rasped out, gasping in pain, but trying to push it away. No reason to worry Mycroft any more than he already was. Anger and worry did everything to hinder you in a true fight. 

Sucking in a few breaths through his nose, Greg closed his eyes, for just a moment, then opened them again. Spots were still dancing around the edge of his vision, and the back of his neck was still pouring in pain, but that was fine. 

This was fine. 

Moriarty threw his head back, and laughed, delighted once more. ‘This is wonderful,’ he sighed, ‘Just perfect. Oh, it is going to be such a delight to kill the both of you. Perhaps, if you’re nice to me now, I’ll make sure you’re holding hands as they take your bodies away. You might even get to keep your heads, too!’ 

Greg rolled his eyes, and, in an effort to make Mycroft just a little less tense, he raised a hand and pointed at Moriarty and chuckling, as if to say; _can you believe this guy?_

Mycroft’s eyes widened in shock, surprised Greg was making a joke with blood pouring from his hands and legs, and a huge bump forming on the back of his head. But the joke served its purpose. Humour and amusement hovered around the corners of Mycroft’s eyes, lightening the grey ever so slightly, and warming Greg up from the inside. 

The light was growing ever dimmer as the minutes wore on, and Greg knew that darkness wasn’t that far off. 

After the small inside joke shared between the two of them, Mycroft seemed more relaxed. Back once again was the controlling, predatory Career Greg had first met. He seemed to sweep aside the lack of confidence, the nervous desperation the Career had donned for the last few moments. 

‘So,’ Mycroft began, folding his arms behind his back, and beginning to pace. ‘What, precisely, is your plan here, in the long run? I shall present myself to you for you to kill, otherwise you will kill Gregory. Dear me, _Jim,_ you have quite the preoccupation for murder.’ 

Moriarty seemed a little thrown off, just by Mycroft’s soft, quietly confident words. 

‘Well, if we throw that aside, let us see. You shall kill me, and then Gregory? Then I do not see any reason for me to present myself to you for slaughter. The only thing that shall change is the order in which you kill us. Thus, you shall murder Gregory, and I shall be enraged enough to murder you. Then, I shall win. That is how things shall be progressing.’ 

Moriarty smiled. ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ he murmured. ‘You see, you are _weak._ This little tin can knight has made you weak. He has made you a fool, Iceman. He has made you a sentimental little fool. However… I shall take great delight in torturing every last drop of blood, sweat and tears from his body if you do not comply. 

‘You may run. I will not stop you. But be assured of the fact that I shall make your precious little fuck toy’s last few moments viciously painful.’ 

Mycroft was looking at him. There was a quiet understanding in those eyes, something Mycroft wanted to tell him. Mycroft knew something. He had something in the bag. 

And Greg trusted Mycroft with his life, and heart. 

To Moriarty’s surprise, Mycroft quite literally threw his head back and laughed. ‘You believe you will sway me? You believe your accusations of my foolishness will change my mind? You see, _Jim,_ you have miscalculated. Gregory is most certainly not, and never will be, a weakness.’ 

For Greg, that was all the signal he needed. As quickly as he possibly could, he whipped around and slammed his heel onto Moriarty’s. They were both wearing the same shoes, worn down from days and days of abuse. 

Thus, Greg’s heel slammed straight into the tendon overtop Moriarty’s small foot. 

Moriarty howled, in agony and anger, bending over in pain. Immediately, Greg lurched forwards, running at Mycroft full-tilt until he was at the other Career’s side. 

Mycroft smiled, and took Greg’s hand in his own, gently, before looking over at Moriarty. 

‘Gregory is a knight, _Jim,’_ sneered Mycroft. ‘He is not a princess, and not a damsel in distress to be saved.’ 

Moriarty’s eyes were stewing with anger, as darkness settled over the Arena. The shadows were melting back into the night, and there was nothing left, not anymore. 

Just them, and the dark shapes of trees and buildings around the clearing. The sounds of the night were beginning to stir, wind rustling through the trees. 

However, there was a notable absence of animal noises. Usually, the owls were hooting and frogs were croaking, the entire Arena blooming with night life. 

But now, it was silent. 

There was an uneasy tension in the air - Greg could tell they were all feeling it. Moriarty was gazing around, the vicious smile gone from his face. Mycroft was looking around as well, and holding Greg’s hand tightly in his own. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg whispered, ‘Shouldn’t the anthem have come by now?’ 

‘Yes,’ replied Mycroft, squeezing Greg’s hand tightly. ‘It should have.’ 

‘Is it ‘cause there was no deaths today?’ 

‘No,’ replied Mycroft. ‘Even when there are no deaths, the anthem will still play.’ 

‘Then what… what’s going on?’ 

Mycroft looked over at Greg, his eyes dark and worried. ‘A lack of an anthem—‘ 

Mycroft’s words were interrupted, cut off by the sounds of howling, starting up far off in the distance. Out in the darkness of the trees, and wailing over them. It was an absolutely horrific sound, that was more akin to the screeching of humans in pain mixed with the howling of wolves. 

And the worst part was that it was coming from behind them. Directly behind them, and not too far off, from the sounds of it. 

If Greg concentrated, he could even hear the sounds of large paws, crashing through the undergrowth, heading down the road towards them. 

Greg shared a look with Mycroft. 

Mycroft’s eyes were wide, his brilliant greys dimmed by the lack of light in the clearing. 

Quickly, the Career bent, swept the sword up off the ground, and then they were off. 

Sprinting through the trees, blowing past Moriarty without giving the other Career a second glance. Greg followed in Mycroft’s footsteps, his shorted legs keeping him a little behind. They pounded through the tree growth, out of the clearing and down the road. Greg knew they were heading west, in the same direction that the sun had set from. 

Adrenaline pumped through Greg’s veins. 

Running through the trees at full tilt, slipping slightly over small puddles, he could ignore the flaring pain of the cuts on the backs of his legs, and the thumping pain of his head. The sounds of the howls weren’t getting louder, which was a good sign, but Greg could hear Moriarty had taken off after them, as well. 

Not after them, no. That was perhaps the wrong word for it. He was fleeing too. All the evil little bastard’s plotting and scheming had fallen through, and now he was desperately running for his life, just as they were. 

He wouldn’t try hurt them. He didn’t have the time to do it, either. All they could do was run, and run fast. 

The wind whipped at Greg’s face, making his eyes sting, as he squinted to peer through the gloom. Mycroft’s back was a familiar sight, his rapier a lick of shimmering silver in the darkness. He was easy enough to follow, and so Greg did. 

Mycroft cast a glance back to look at him, and they locked eyes, briefly, before Mycroft turned forwards again, to continue running. 

Greg’s legs were on fire. His feet felt like they too were made from asphalt, pouring over the cracked and slippery pavement. His thighs were burning up, and the adrenaline pumping through his veins was only just enough to mask the pouring of his head and the cut on the backs of his legs. 

Sucking in breaths of oxygen that felt like actual flames in his lungs, Greg panted as he pounded after Mycroft, the situation not helping at all with his headache. 

Behind him, he could hear Moriarty was crashing through the bushes as well, but he could ignore that. 

Right now, all that mattered was following Mycroft. 

Because he knew the sounds of the things on his heels. Those things… Greg had seen them before. Far off, in the distance, hunting as a pack beyond the borders of District Ten. 

They were also _Mutts,_ like the ones back in the water. They were like Sharkers, horrifying mixtures of two or more animals. However, in this case, the Capitol had wanted to create a living war machine. They had taken some of the most vicious animals, genetically engineered them together into a patchwork monstrosity. 

Bit of dog, bit of lion, lot of wolf, all thrown into the cooking pot. That wasn’t even addressing the rumours Greg had heard. The horrifying ones about how the Capitol hadn’t just put bits of _animals_ in there. They’d actually taken out human genes, and shoved them in, giving the _Mutts_ an intelligence beyond compare. 

Not to mention a vicious killing streak. 

Darkhounds. 

That had been the name whispered amongst the people back in the District. Whenever a pack was seen just beyond the borders, the name was whispered amongst the Market gossips. Greg remembered the stories. The ones about people being ripped to shreds by the semi-humanoid wolves, and then left for dead. Left as eyeless mounds of boneless flesh, without vocal cords to scream in agony. 

So, while Greg’s breaths burned his lungs alive, far better that than being caught. Because Darkhounds didn’t always kill you. No, they seemed to relish in simply leaving their prey to die of natural causes, a horrible, slow, painful death. 

Greg hadn’t been looking where they were going, beyond Mycroft’s back. He had trusted Mycroft not to let him fall. 

Suddenly, they burst out into the fresh air, into open space that Greg hadn’t been expecting, not at all. 

Greg realised where they were.

The familiar shape of the Clock Tower reared high over their heads, the face lit up ever so slightly in the darkness by a lonely filament lamp. The arrows pointed, denoting the time as being about fifteen minutes until eight o’clock. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg called, desperately, as Mycroft leapt over the podiums and towards the Clock Tower in the middle of the crossing. ‘Mycroft, what…?!’ 

‘Gregory!’ Mycroft called out, desperately, as he reached underneath the Clock Tower. Reaching out, the Career opened a door Greg hadn’t seen before, and darted inside, leaving it standing open for Greg. Greg lunged for it, throwing himself inside and directly into the stairs beyond, and slammed the door shut. 

Then, he turned on one heel and sprinted up the stairs, just as Mycroft had done, to find the Career himself waiting at the top for Greg. 

Greg followed him out, finding Mycroft watching over the edge of the rim. There was only a narrow space, between the pyramid of the roof, and the edge of the tower, a small dividing wall resting between, topped with a bit of worn, ornate, metal detailing. 

Leaning back against the roof, Greg panted, hunching over to try and gain his breath more easily. 

Suddenly, Mycroft was upon him, pulling Greg up and against his chest, cradling his face. Those beautiful eyes were wide and desperate, and immediately, Greg brought his hands up to Mycroft’s back, stroking comfortingly. 

‘Are you all right?’ asked Mycroft, his voice tinged with desperation he had tried valiantly to hide. ‘Are you all right?!’ 

‘Yes,’ Greg murmured, stroking Mycroft’s back, ‘Yes, I’m fi—‘ 

The howling suddenly picked up, prompting Greg to turn and look over the edge of the Clock Tower. 

Moriarty had burst into the intersection, running desperately, his whip long gone. He sprinted for the Tower, heading straight for the same door that Greg had gone through, and had shut behind himself. Greg heard it swing shut. 

‘Fuck,’ he murmured. 

Even as he muttered it, things got worse. The Darkhound pack hurtled through the sparse trees on the road they had come from, and quickly burst out onto the intersection.

Greg had to peer through the darkness to see them, shadowy and black as they were. But when he saw their shapes, they were unmistakeable. 

Larger than normal wolves, and more misshapen, their howls were distinctive and ear-splitting, supposed to induce terror in anyone who heard them. They had round, bulbous heads, and tiny, red eyes that glowed in the darkness. 

Enormous teeth protruded from their snouts, hanging out even when their mouths were closed. They were vicious and bloody, frothing and foaming at the mouth as if they had some sort of horrifying disease. They leapt up towards the tower, and could clearly tell that Greg, Mycroft and Moriarty were up the top, but couldn’t find a way up. 

Thank fuck they couldn’t open doors. They weren’t that clever. 

‘Gregory,’ murmured Mycroft, a warning in his voice. ‘James has arrived at the top.’ 

Greg turned away from the edge of the Clock Tower, from the sight of the Darkhounds howling away at the bottom. It did drown out a great deal of other noise, but despite that, Greg could hear Mycroft. 

Mycroft’s eyes were quietly dark, and angry. They held within them a shining intellect, a brilliance beyond compare, and Greg knew Mycroft was thinking. 

Mycroft was trying to find a solution, even though Greg knew there wasn’t one. 

Silently, Mycroft handed Greg a dagger, pressing it into his hands and holding them, gently, for just a moment, as if he couldn’t bear to let go. It was more than a little comforting, not only holding the familiar weight of a dagger, but also holding Mycroft’s long fingers in his own. 

Just a moment. 

Then, Mycroft let him go, and pointed. 

Greg knew immediately what they were going to do. Mycroft was directing him in one direction, and Greg was going to go in the other. 

Immediately, Greg nodded, and complied, silently sliding around the side of the pyramid in the centre of the Clock Tower roof. 

Moving around, he just saw the tail end of Moriarty’s shoe, darting in the direction of Mycroft. Greg crept along, quietly, holding the dagger in his hand and readying himself as best he could for what was going to happen next. 

Greg rounded another corner, and then another, until he was back right where they had started in the first place, just on the opposite end.

Mycroft was standing there, as was Moriarty, silhouetted by the sea of writhing Darkhounds below them. Moriarty was grinning, and Mycroft was a predator, with one hand behind his back, and the other on the hilt of his rapier, pressed blade down into the concrete on top of the tower. 

‘And here we are,’ Moriarty murmured, as Greg rounded the corner. ‘The final problem. To live, or not to live, that is the question.’ 

‘Yes, Jim. There are three of us, you see. And only one will walk out. I know who that shall be. Do you?’ 

Moriarty threw his head back, and laughed. ‘Yes, _Mycroft._ But will it be a truth? Or shall it be a lie?’ 

Confused, Greg stepped closer. 

‘You see, my dear Iceman, there is only ever one victor of the Games. Only one. And here lies your dilemma. How long did it take you, out of curiosity? To plan this all out?’ 

Mycroft shook his head, and sighed. ‘Longer than you would think. And, perhaps, it shan’t be said that I did not make my plans deep. Rooted, buried. Layer upon layer, James. Nothing will go wrong.’

‘I suppose,’ shrugged Moriarty. ‘It’s all rather pointless, though. In the end, isn’t it? The world will continue on, won’t it? Everything will keep going around and around in a giant cycle of never-ending misery. Isn’t it delightful?’ 

‘I am not going to simply stop the cycle, James,’ Mycroft replied, softly. ‘I am going to set it alight. I am going to burn it to ashes and sprinkle those ashes over the dead bodies of those who perpetuated it. I will make their legacies into _nothing._ And all you are serving to do is stand in my way. _’_

Moriarty sighed, rolling his eyes. ‘Boring. Predictable. So much “good of the people”. I think I may be sick.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mycroft, looking up at Greg, directly. ‘It is for good. But perhaps not so much for the people.’ 

Moriarty took the chance. Launching forwards, his knife at the ready, the smaller, black haired Career slashed at Mycroft. But his blade didn’t connect, Mycroft’s own a sharp flash of silver. The clash of steel rang out high over the sounds of the howling, muted now, as the Darkhounds below clawed, frustrated, at the side of the tower. 

Greg could see that Mycroft wasn’t playing around, not anymore. Moriarty had no chance in hell. Mycroft’s blade was a blur, driving Moriarty to the side of the tower. 

Then, suddenly, with a vicious slash of Mycroft’s blade, Moriarty was shoved back far enough to trip, over the wall of the tower. The echoing scream of the black haired Career was cut off, suddenly, with an audible, horrible, wet crunch, as his body fell, and was impaled upon the sharp point of the minute hand on the clock. 

Greg held a hand up to cover his mouth, to stop himself from being sick at the sight. Moriarty’s body was literally impaled, the minute hand liberally coated in his blood, and the shining point glimmering in the moonlight. It punctured straight through his back and through his sternum, his entire body limp. 

The cannon fired, ringing in a rising toll over the Arena. Only Mycroft and himself were alive to hear it. 

Moriarty’s black eyes were dead, and lifeless, and his body was as limp as a rag doll’s. 

Mycroft was staring at the body, as well, his eyes cold and icy. He looked on, silently, as still as a statue. 

The second hand ticked over, and then, suddenly, it caught on Moriarty’s body. 

It hung there, for a second, as if unsure if it could continue. The grinding of the gears was audible in the dark, and then, something had to give. Moriarty’s body was what gave, and with a sickening wrench, it was pulled clean off the minute hand, and fell to the ravenous packs of Darkhounds below. 

The howling began anew, and Greg had to look away then. He couldn’t watch someone being torn to shreds by those monsters, even if it was just Moriarty’s dead body. 

‘Gregory,’ whispered Mycroft, as Greg edged closer.

Greg didn’t reply. He knew what Mycroft needed, and it wasn’t to be talked at. It was the simplest thing in the world to just slide forwards, and take up his spot in Mycroft’s arms. The rapier clattered to the concrete, giving out a scratching, bell-like sound.

Mycroft’s arms cast around Greg’s waist, and the taller Career bent his head to rest in Greg’s neck. Greg himself tucked his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders, and held him tight, burying his face in the ginger’s neck. 

‘Mycroft,’ he replied, equally as quiet. 

They stood there, entirely silent, just quietly taking in each other’s presence. It was enough. 

Greg breathed in Mycroft’s familiar scent, and revelled in the moment. He didn’t worry about the past, or the future. He didn’t have to. 

They stood there for what felt like hours, but was in reality only a few minutes, before Mycroft leant back to press his forehead against Greg’s. Greg didn’t want to do anything for the rest of his life, right in that moment, other than stare into those deep grey eyes, the stormy eyes of his brilliant lover. 

Quietly, Greg stroked his hand along Mycroft’s jaw, and waited for the other Tribute to be ready. Waited for Mycroft to speak, as he always did and would always do, if he got the chance. 

‘My love,’ Mycroft murmured, a moment later, and leant forwards to pull a kiss from Greg’s lips. Greg complied, silently offering himself up for the taking, letting Mycroft press all the anger and sadness and horror at what had just happened into his mouth. 

Moriarty’s blood was still on the needle of the Clock Tower minute hand. But right now, they were here, standing on this roof, and it was enough. 

Suddenly, Greg realised the sun was rising. 

Which was impossible. 

Greg had to break away from Mycroft, for just a moment, to look over. 

‘It is the Gamemakers,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘They are changing the sunrise and sunsets.’ 

‘Why?’

‘Atmosphere,’ replied Mycroft, quietly. ‘Atmosphere, for what must happen next.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Greg, raising an eyebrow. 

‘My love, it is just as James said,’ whispered Mycroft. ‘There can only be one winner of the Hunger Games. You know that as well as I do.’ 

Greg shook his head. ‘One more day,’ he whispered. ‘Can I at least have that? Can I have one more day?’

‘I do not know if that is possible,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘I do not believe they will allow it. The Gamemakers want their ending. They want everything to be wrapped up in a lovely little bow.’ He chuckled, quietly. ‘Far be it from us to deny them their wish.’ 

Greg sighed, and leant into Mycroft’s shoulder. ‘I want more time,’ he murmured. ‘I want more time. I want time to love you and be with you. I want to live by your side and wake up with you every morning.’ 

‘I want to give that to you, my love. I want to give it to you with everything in me. I wish it more than perhaps I wish anything, to give you the life you deserve,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘I want to build for you a new world.’ 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg whispered, tears threatening behind his eyes. Mycroft just raised a hand to stroke through Greg’s silvery hair, and then down his tanned jaw, lifting it to look directly into his own eyes. 

‘I wish to set this world ablaze for you, my love,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘I would set it alight, and build a new world from the ashes in your name. In your honour. 

‘I made many plans, my dear,’ Mycroft continued. ‘I had plan upon plan upon plan. I wished to build a new world for my brother, one in which he could have _everything._ In which I could give him everything. I swore it to him on the day he was born, that I would give him everything I possibly could, everything he deserved.

‘And then I met you. You, my dear, you looked at me across a hall that I thought I owned. I came to these Games believing it to be something easy. The first battle in a war that may last decades. You captivated me with a single glance, do you know that, Gregory Lestrade? 

‘You blew a hole right through my plans with your very existence. The essence of you defied what I believed to be easy.

‘There is no denying I am a monstrous person, Gregory,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘I am a monster, sometimes. I have played God, before. I have made plans and plots and I have killed time and time again. Not only in these Games. 

‘You make me want to be a better person, Gregory. You make me want to be not only a leader, but a moral light. I would like to now not only build a new world for you, and for Sherlock, I would like to build it rooted upon your morals.’ 

Greg knew he was crying. He knew silent tears were pouring down his face. This was Mycroft saying goodbye. He knew it. 

And if this was the last time. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg rasped, through his tears, desperately clinging to the tactician with everything in him. ‘I don’t want…’ 

‘I know,’ Mycroft murmured, and Greg knew he wasn’t imagining the soft, gentle tears that were also flowing down Mycroft’s face. ‘But there is only one winner.’ 

They stood, silently, Mycroft pressing tiny, delicate kisses to Greg’s face, and Greg leaning into them as much as he could. 

‘Gregory, my love,’ Mycroft murmured, between kisses, ‘I want to build you a new world. Don’t you see? It’s a magic trick. All of it. This is all a magic trick, a beautiful lie.’ 

‘I know,’ Greg whispered. ‘I remember.’ 

Swallowing back another choking sob, Greg looked up into Mycroft’s eyes. 

‘You have driven me to making foolish wishes to the wind,’ Mycroft murmured, sounding almost angry, in the way he shook in Greg’s arms, and the way Greg shook in his. 

This was just too hard. 

‘My fondest wish is for more time, as is yours. More time to be together with you, to wake up to your face and listen to your utterly awful jokes. To kiss you and touch you and be _us._ To meet John, and for you to meet Sherlock. For you to stand at my side, as my lover, my partner, my confidant. My Silver Knight.’ 

Greg laughed, through his tears. ‘A Silver Knight and a Great Tactician. What a pair we make.’ 

‘We do,’ said Mycroft, sombrely. 

Greg took a deep breath. 

It was enough. It was going to have to be enough. No point in staving off the inevitable. 

He looked down, and pressed against Mycroft one final time, before leaning back. He didn’t drop Mycroft’s hands, holding them tightly. 

‘Alright,’ he murmured, the words sick on his tongue. ‘I’m ready.’ 

Mycroft inclined his head. ‘Very well, my love.’ 

Then, the knife was produced from Mycroft’s other shoe. Slowly, Mycroft took a step forwards, and released Greg’s other hand to raise his own, and gently stroked over Greg’s face, softening over Greg’s jawline. 

‘My love,’ Mycroft murmured, ‘You must be safe. You must be safe, and healthy, and happy. You must go back to John.’ 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg suddenly realised the words that were coming out of Mycroft’s mouth. Then, looking down at the knife, he realised the blade wasn’t pointed at him. It was pointed at Mycroft himself. ‘No, no, no, what are you doing?’ 

‘You will be… _marvellous,’_ said Mycroft, a soft smile gracing those familiar, beautiful features, a full second before the brilliant tactician took the knife in both hands, and then buried it into his own chest. 

It sunk in with a wet, squelching sound, and Greg screamed, leaping forwards to take Mycroft’s collapsing body in his arms. 

‘No, no, no, you stupid bastard, you were supposed to do that to me!’ 

Greg sunk to the floor, his legs giving out underneath him. Mycroft’s body was limp over his knees, the blood already welling up from the wound. Greg tugged the dagger free as quickly as he possibly could, and pressed a hand over the wound. His tears were fogging up his vision, even as his heart ripped to shreds. 

‘Mycroft, how could… why would… fuck… why did you do that?’ 

‘Gregory,’ Mycroft rasped, his hand weakly grasping at Greg’s, covered in his own blood. ‘Gregory, please…’ 

‘No, you fucking idiot, you can’t… you have a world to build. You have people who need you. You’re a leader, I’m not. The cycle isn’t gonna break without you… please don’t do this to me…’ 

He couldn’t understand. Didn’t understand. He had been so sure. He had _known._ He’d been ready for his fate, he knew he was sacrificing for the greater good. Mycroft had so much to fight for. So much to live for. Mycroft could have gone on to do so many things. 

‘Mycroft please…’ 

Slowly, weakly, Mycroft’s hand raised, and gently stroked over Greg’s face, brushing away a tear and leaving hot blood in its place. ‘Do not cry, my love.’ 

Then, the hand dropped, and Mycroft’s eyes fell away from Greg’s face. The pulse that had been dying, finally stopped, and one last exhale, and Mycroft was gone. 

Gone. 

The word echoed around in Greg’s head, certainly easier than perhaps dead. But gone was… 

Gone.

Greg collapsed, unable to hold up his own weight, curling over Mycroft’s body, tears blooming and pouring down his cheeks. He knew that there were noises, cannons, and the sound of a presenter, and then something around his waist. 

He clung to Mycroft’s body with everything in him, screaming incoherently as they tried to take him away. 

Screaming and screaming and screaming as his head hurt and his chest ached and Mycroft’s body got cooler and cooler in his hands. 

Instructions to let go, commands to let go… 

Nothing. 

Then, something painful flared through his veins, in his arm, and darkness immediately bore him down, pain and grief throwing him into unconscious blackness. 


	30. Victor

Greg was lost, somewhere. A warm, sunny, slightly familiar forest. The sun bathed the place in a pale, softly yellow light. There was something about the vision, something slightly hazy, and Greg really had to focus to keep the details straight in his mind.

Quietly, Greg moved through the trees, treading silently, ghosting past unbothered animals and bubbling brooks. He knew he was moving fast, but he couldn’t feel it in his muscles. 

His body didn’t ache, and he couldn’t see any blemishes, scars or cuts on his hands. 

‘Gregory, my love.’ 

A whispering voice echoed through the trees. 

Immediately, Greg smiled, and looked up, peering through the branches to try and get a good look at the source of that wonderful, smooth voice. Turning, he saw Mycroft, walking out of the trees. He was clothed in the three piece suit Greg had first seen him in, and he had a warm expression on his face. 

Those soft lips were turned up in a gentle smile, and grey eyes looked at him, sadly. 

Mycroft opened his arms, and immediately, Greg sprinted for him, practically launching into the other boy’s hands. Mycroft chuckled, lowly, and grasped Greg to him. 

‘Hey, love,’ Greg whispered, into Mycroft’s warm, familiar neck. ‘How are you?’ 

‘On balance,’ murmured Mycroft. ‘I believe I may have had better days.’ 

Greg let out a low laugh, hugging Mycroft tightly. ‘I’ve had better days, too. I’ve had better months.’ 

Just a moment of standing there in Mycroft’s arms, and then Mycroft let him go. Gently, the tall ginger took his hand, and led him through the forest. ‘Walk with me, my dear.’ 

‘Of course,’ replied Greg, cocking an eyebrow. ‘Anything for you, my king.’ 

Mycroft chuckled, again, reaching out a hand and touching below Greg’s chin, before beginning to lead him through the forest. The sounds of the environment filtered through Greg’s ears; the babbling of tiny brooks, the soft sounds of dead leaves crunching under their feet, the chirping of birds fluttering overhead. 

They didn’t talk. They didn’t need to. 

‘Mycroft,’ Greg started, after a moment, looking out over the forest. He could feel the moment the stormy grey eyes of his companion looked over at him. ‘What… I just…’ 

‘Gregory, my love, now is not the time for questions,’ replied Mycroft, cutting Greg off. ‘Enjoy this moment, for it shall not last long.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ asked Greg, turning to look over at Mycroft, his eyes wide. He could feel something, at the corner of his consciousness, beating away. 

Mycroft stopped, and turned to look at him, taking up his hands firmly in his own two, long fingered ones. Greg finally turned to look into Mycroft’s eyes, deeply, those brilliant greys boring into his own. 

Greg wanted to spend an eternity here, just wandering through this unknown forest, holding Mycroft’s hand and his heart, and having Mycroft hold his own. This was all he wanted. 

Right now, this was all he needed. 

‘My love,’ Mycroft murmured, ‘look around you.’ 

So Greg did. 

It was a forest. It was a lovely, warm, sunny forest populated by wildlife and babbling brooks and large trees. 

‘Gregory, _look.’_ And Mycroft pointed, to where the shadows of the trees should have been. 

For they were not there. 

It was the same of the rest of the forest. There were no shadows, anywhere. It was an awful realisation, and Greg didn’t want to think about what it meant. 

The forest was growing hazy. 

‘No,’ Greg whispered, ‘please. Not again. I can’t do this again, Mycroft, please… for God’s sake please don’t make me do this!’ 

‘Oh, my love,’ Mycroft whispered, taking Greg’s face in his hands, and gently stroking Greg’s cheeks. ‘My love.’ 

Greg clung to Mycroft, desperate to keep the other’s face in view. To keep Mycroft in his eyes, at all times. If he could just do that, then it wouldn’t fade. This wouldn’t go anywhere, everything was going to be okay. This was going to be fine. 

This was going to be fine. 

‘My beautiful, wonderful, _marvellous_ love,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘Keep your eyes fixed on me. I do realise this shall not be easy. But you must be strong. You must be safe, and you must be strong. Will you do that, for me?’ 

Greg blinked, feeling like there should be tears and knowing there wasn’t going to be. 

‘Mycroft,’ he whispered, ‘I can’t do this.’

‘Do not be a fool,’ Mycroft replied, ‘You shall survive. You shall be _happy._ You were happy before me, with John, and your friends back at your home. You shall be happy after me.’ 

‘But now I know the truth,’ murmured Greg. ‘Now I know the truth and I don’t want to go home without you. I would have been so _proud_ of you. You know that? I would have been so proud to have you by my side. I would have introduced you to my friends, and to John, and we would have been a family. You and me and John and Sherlock. I wanted that. I still want that.’ 

‘My love, that was always impossible. You know that as well as I do.’ 

‘I know,’ Greg replied. ‘I know, but I had dreams.’ 

‘As did I, my dear, as did I.’ 

Greg pressed his forehead against Mycroft’s, silently, staring into the taller ginger’s eyes. Mycroft looked right back, in that familiar, entrancing way he did. ‘Your plans,’ he whispered. ‘I want that still to happen.’ 

‘I have confidence it shall,’ replied Mycroft. 

‘How? You’re _dead,_ Mycroft. You killed yourself in front of me, and I will never forgive you for that.’ 

‘Good,’ said Mycroft. ‘Hate me. Forget me. Move on with your life, my love. What we shared was a brief moment, and while I hope it meant to you what it meant to me, I would wish nothing but your happiness.’ 

‘You gave me everything, Mycroft,’ Greg said, ‘You gave me everything in the space of just a few days and I will never forget that.’ 

Mycroft’s eyes softened. ‘Just as you gave to me.’ 

They had a moment of silence. The forest and the birds had faded away, and all that was left was Mycroft’s face, and Mycroft’s hands on Greg. 

‘You have to go now, my love,’ murmured Mycroft, and with a start, Greg realised Mycroft’s face, too, was now fading away, slipping from his grasp like mist on a cold day. 

‘I don’t want to,’ whispered Greg, desperately. ‘Can you stay?’ 

‘I cannot stay, and neither may you, my love,’ Mycroft murmured. ‘As it should be. You shall live your life and I shall fade on the horizon. As is proper.’ 

‘No, it’s not,’ Greg rasped, ‘It’s not. I don’t want it to be.’ 

But Mycroft was gone. 

And then, so was Greg. 

***

Greg woke up to the sounds of a beeping machine, beeping rapidly in pace with his own heart. His head was pounding, and his limbs ached, but he couldn’t feel the sting of fresh cuts across his flesh anymore. The ache, he realised, was entirely internal. 

Physically, he felt fine. Physically, he felt better than he had in a while. Nothing was hurting and nothing was aching but everything was aching and it was such a contradiction that Greg wanted to bang his head against the nearest wall. 

God, he hated this. 

Opening his eyes, the first thing he saw was the white roof of some… place. Some room, that he didn’t recognise. There was a needle in the back of his hand, and he was wearing a rather thin, flimsy, hospital gown. There was no one around, the room was entirely bare. A window stood across from him, looking out over some peaceful lake somewhere. It certainly wasn’t a lake outside this room, though. 

The bed he was in was a low, sleek, modern thing with a tilted back, propping him up at an angle. 

Greg shifted around, finding that he could move easily and without the aches and pains from the days previous. The physical aches and pains, anyway. 

Quietly, Greg slid off the bed, and grasped the needle in the back of his hand, pulling it out, sharply. Strangely enough, it didn’t set off any alarms. His head spun a little when he got to his feet, forcing him to sit back down again, and carefully get his bearings before trying to get back up onto his feet once more. 

But soon enough, he managed it. 

The door on the far side of the room was left unlocked, opening into a large, cold, empty hallway. 

Greg stepped out onto the linoleum as quietly as he possibly could manage, his bare toes twitching in the cold. Easily enough, he slipped off down the hallway, stepping around to try and find where he was. 

Wandering down the hallway, he came across a few more doors, all locked. The hallway ended in another door, that was, again, locked, forcing Greg to wander back in the direction he had come. A soft breeze was washing through the hall, bathing Greg’s nose in the slightly nasty smell of antiseptic. 

Reaching out a hand, Greg trailed it along the wall, feeling for cracks and crevices and vines and moss and other signs he was still in the Arena. 

Nothing. 

He felt numb. 

There was something wrong, he knew that. There was something deeply, innately wrong with the way he was feeling and it wasn’t right. He needed to pull himself together - he just didn’t know how. 

Everything felt numb. 

Then again, maybe it was just a bit better to feel numb than to feel the ache he could feel building in his chest. He didn’t know what that ache was, really. And he didn’t want to have to think about it, particularly. That was a problem for another time. 

He wondered, idly, where he was. Clearly, he was in a hospital of some sort, some place in the Capitol, perhaps? 

But that was confusing, in and of itself. Why was he back in the Capitol? 

Maybe like that dream he had just had, this was a dream too. It certainly felt hazy, and numb enough to be a dream. Everything had a slightly dreamy quality to it. 

Maybe this was heaven. Or hell. Or something. Maybe when people died they came to this horrible hospital and wandered about aimlessly. The hospital of the dead. 

Hilarious.

Slowly, Greg realised that it was too cold to be a dream. So, his options were that he was either alive, or dead. Same options that faced most of humankind, really. Am I dead, or am I alive?

Greg hoped he was dead. He hoped he was alive, and he hoped he was dead. It was horribly confusing. 

If he was alive, then he could go see John and Sally and Molly and everyone back home. He would step off that train again back in the District. But if he was dead, Mycroft was out there. Mycroft was out there making a difference in the world. Because that had been the deal. Either you die, or Mycroft dies. 

And Mycroft was going to change the world. Greg couldn’t ever do that, he didn’t think. He didn’thave the same motivation, he didn’t have the same cause. 

It wasn’t him who could build a new world order. It was only Mycroft who could do that. 

Slowly, Greg ambled towards the door at the other end of the hallway. 

This one was actually open. 

He pushed through, slightly surprised he could do so, to find himself in a sitting room. It was a lovely thing, small enough to be cosy, with comfortable chairs dotted around the place, all sleek lines and modern shapes. On the far side of the room was a window, large and imposing, showing a view out over the Capitol. 

And, as soon as he entered, there were the unanimous gasps of a startled crowd. 

Slowly, numbly, Greg turned to look over at them. 

He recognised one as Dimmock, Dimmock the drunk, come to take him away to the Games. And Calypso, who only added to the dream-like effect with her poofy, hot pink hair, and bright makeup. Then, there was also Clara, who was gazing at Greg frankly over the top of her glass of water, raised halfway to her lips. 

They looked like people from another dimension. 

They came from the world Before. The world before Mycroft wandered in and made his life so much…. something. 

They came from a different time. 

Slowly, Clara set down her glass. 

‘Hello,’ Greg said, pleasantly enough. His voice was slightly raspy, from disuse, and did feel more than a little sore, but his voice was familiar. 

‘H… hello,’ Calypso tittered, softly. 

Dimmock got to his feet, and approached Greg, quietly, like one would approach a startled animal, on the verge of charging. He approached, almost tentatively, and then held out a hand.

‘Congratulations, Lestrade,’ he said, ‘You’re the Victor of the 74th Hunger Games.’ 

Greg shook his head. ‘No, I’m not.’ 

‘Yes, you are,’ giggled Calypso, silly behind a single, manicured, almost clawed hand. 

‘No,’ Greg insisted. ‘I’m not. Where’s… Mycroft? Mycroft? Where’s Mycroft?’ 

Calypso’s eyes were wide. Clara was still looking at Greg, her face entirely unreadable. Dimmock looked down, at his still-outstretched hand, quickly tucking it away. 

‘Lestrade,’ Dimmock said, ‘Mycroft’s dead. He’s dead, Lestrade. You won.’ 

Greg shook his head. It felt too dreamy, it felt too unreal. 

‘Where is he?’ Greg asked again, softly, more desperate. ‘I need to see him, Dimmock. Please.’ 

‘He’s not here, Lestrade. His body is not here.’ 

‘Then where…’ Greg choked, on his words. 

‘Why don’t you understand?!’ barked Dimmock, suddenly, his voice harsh and sharp. ‘What don’t you get? Mycroft is gone! You were an idiot for trusting him in the first place. He was a District One Career, for God’s sake. You can’t honestly believe what he told you!’ 

‘Dimmock!’ tittered Calypso, outraged, her voice reprimanding. Dimmock scoffed, rolling his eyes. 

‘Yes, yes, it’s all very wonderful, a perfect love story, but Greg can drop it, now. He doesn’t have to act anymore, not around us. I know better.’ 

Greg boiled with a sudden anger, that overcame him, and that he didn’t have the strength to stop. Whirling, he launched a fist at Dimmock.

Dimmock, who hadn’t been expecting it, got socked straight in the face. His nose made a satisfying crunch under Greg’s hand. ‘Never say that to me!’ Greg hissed, his voice raspy, low, and dangerous. 

Dimmock’s nose was bleeding. His small eyes were angry, and immediately, he turned on his heel to march away, going to sulk in a corner. 

Immediately, Clara got to her feet, and paced over to Greg, taking him in her arms. Greg curled into her, her small, familiar body, breathing in her scent. She wasn’t Mycroft. She was too small, she had a faintly flowery scent, she didn’t have the same eyes or hair… or anything. 

‘Greg, listen to me,’ she whispered, right in Greg’s ear. ‘I know it’s hard, okay. I do. But Mycroft isn’t here. He’s gone, Greg. I’m so, so sorry. I know you two were… close. Just… I’m sorry.’ 

Greg didn’t say anything. 

Silently, Calypso too got to her feet, and wandered over, placing a hand on Greg’s shoulder. For some reason, it was comforting. 

‘They’re… gone…’ Greg murmured, his voice soft and disbelieving. ‘Mycroft, and Suzie, and Irene, and Moriarty and Janine and all of them. They’re all… gone?’ 

‘Yes,’ whispered Clara. ‘I’m sorry, Greg. I truly am.’

‘Clara, Mycroft told me he was gonna change the world,’ whispered Greg. 

‘I know, honey,’ Clara whispered. ‘We all know. We saw him promise you, Greg.’

***

Clara led Greg to sit down, on one of the couches, leaning back against her. She stroked a hand over his shoulder, gently, as Calypso patted his arm, equally as gently. 

Greg knew he was being coddled, spoiled, and couldn’t find it in himself to protest. 

Because he needed it. He knew he needed it. He needed a tiny bit of something, just _something,_ to help patch up this huge, gaping hole that had somehow been torn straight through his chest. 

‘What happened?’ he asked, a moment later. 

Clara sighed. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’ 

‘No,’ replied Greg, honestly. ‘But I think I need to know.’ 

‘Alright,’ said Clara. 

There was silence. Greg waited for Clara to say something, and she didn’t. He didn’t let it bother him overly much. When she was ready, she would speak. When he was ready, she would speak. 

Clara let out another sigh, through her nose. 

‘Moriarty died on the Clock Tower,’ she said. ‘He was defeated by Mycroft Holmes, and pushed from the Tower to fall down onto the hand.’ 

‘I know,’ Greg murmured, ‘I was there.’ 

‘Then, the Gamemakers changed sunrise. They messed with the whole timeline, really. So we had to watch. As you know… you know.’ 

Clara fell silent. It took a moment for it to sink in exactly what it was she was referring to. When it did sink in, Greg wished to all hell he could forget it. But that wasn’t going to happen, was it? 

‘Afterwards… you… you wouldn’t let go of the body.’ 

Surprised, Greg looked up. He realised Clara was actually crying, as was Calypso, into her handkerchief, dotted with pink hearts. Clara was softly choked up, tears blooming in the corners of her eyes. 

Greg should be crying. 

He didn’t know if he could, anymore. 

‘You wouldn’t let go of him. You just kept… _screaming._ You screamed for him, Greg, it was… the worst thing I’ve ever had to see. I just…’ 

Clara fell silent, again, for a moment, choking. 

‘You wouldn’t let go of his body. You just kept _shaking_ him and _begging_ him to wake up. They tried to grab you with a claw, first, and then they tried to grab you in person. They had to send down _Peacekeepers_ , Greg… I can’t…

‘You attacked them. You cast them away, you wouldn’t let them grab you. They had to _sedate_ you, Greg. Just to get you up into the hovercraft.’ 

‘What about his body?’ asked Greg mechanically. 

‘They had to leave it. You were kicking up such a stir they couldn’t grab the body, not right then. They had to go back for it later.’ 

‘Where is it now?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ replied Clara, honestly. ‘I have no idea. I guess they must have grabbed it later. I didn’t see. I came right back here to you.’ 

Greg didn’t say anything.

‘Usually,’ murmured Clara, ‘the bodies of the dead are sent back to their Districts. Back to their families, to be buried.’ 

‘Oh,’ whispered Greg. ‘And I can’t…’ 

‘No,’ murmured Clara. 

‘Well,’ said Calypso, ‘They may make an excep—‘ 

‘No.’ Dimmock’s voice was loud and clear, from across the room. ‘Lestrade has done enough. Clara, Calypso, we can’t sit around coddling him, all day. We need to make a plan.’ 

‘Why?’ asked Greg, looking over at Dimmock with a glare. 

Dimmock rolled his eyes. ‘Because you have become a symbol,’ he replied. ‘A symbol of something more. President Magnussen… he is very unhappy. He could have you _killed,_ do you understand that, Lestrade? He tried to.’ 

Clara sighed. ‘Must we do this now?’ 

‘Yes,’ Dimmock replied, getting to his feet, and beginning to pace, back and forth, in the small room, his hands behind his back. ‘We have to make some sort of plan of action, Lestrade. Clara, this means you, too.’ 

‘How the fuck am I a symbol?’ asked Greg, sitting up. ‘I just… I want to go home, Dimmock. I’m tired, I’m sad, and I just want to go home.’ 

Dimmock rolled his eyes, and scoffed. ‘That’s not the deal, mate. You won the Games. You’re a Victor now, and that means to hell with what happens to you. You are supposed to be a symbol of the Capitol, and instead you have become, somehow, a symbol of the opposite. You’re the Silver Knight now, Lestrade. And Magnussen is putting on pressure to make you, the Silver Knight, a symbol of the Capitol and not of the Districts.’ 

‘But I’m from the Districts.’ 

‘Exactly,’ retorted Dimmock. 

Greg stood up, bristling. ‘I’m not a propaganda whore for the Capitol, do you understand that, Dimmock? You can tell Magnussen to shove his bullshit where the sun won’t shine.’ 

Dimmock looked out the window. Clara let out a soft sigh, and got to her feet. 

‘That, that attitude, right there, that is our problem. That’s why you’re a symbol, Lestrade, don’t you see? You’re a common hero, someone who the District people relate to. Magnussen can’t have that, you understand?’ 

‘Why are you so suddenly on his side?!’ demanded Greg, throwing up a finger in accusation, his throat hoarse and his breaths tearing at his vocal cords. ‘Shouldn’t you be on the side of the Districts? Shouldn’t you be on _my_ side?’ 

‘I am on _your_ side!’ Dimmock retorted, using air quotations. ‘I am on your side and I’m trying to keep you alive. I’m trying my damnedest to use everything I can to keep you alive, you ungrateful shit, and we start by keeping you in Magnussen’s favour!’ 

***

Greg was led by a silent faced assistant to the spot underneath the stage. It had been prepared for him, a small podium which would life him up through the stage floor to the higher level, getting him ready for the Closing Ceremony of the Games, and his final interview. 

He had been dressed in something softer, milder, a silver-grey, pieced suit that was almost reminiscent of his glowing, Silver Knight armour, but softened around the edges. 

There was a silver-grey cape that came with the piece, folded around him in a soft whirl of fabric. 

It reminded him of nothing but Mycroft, the incredible way he had looked for his own interview, and the stunning outfit he wore to the Opening Ceremony. Even now, Greg’s memory gave him weak knees, and made pinpricks of pressure blossom behind his eyes. 

God, how he hated this. 

Dimmock approached, his own outfit dark and slightly somber, designed to make the other Victor blend into the background. 

The other Victor. 

Huh. 

That was what he was, now. A Victor. He was one of the few who had won the Games. He was going to get a special ceremony and a crown and the President was going to pat him on the head and tell him he had done well and he was going to have to be _happy_ about it. Happy about the fact that the only reason he was here was because Mycroft had taken it upon himself to die for Greg. To kill himself for Greg. 

And now the world that Mycroft had envisioned would never get built. It would never get built and it was Greg’s fault. 

‘Do you remember the plan?’ asked Dimmock, cutting to the chase. Every word they had exchanged was terse, tense, and Greg only gave a single nod as his response. ‘Remember, be soft. You aren’t a fighter, you are a pacifist. You aren’t a symbol of the people, you understand? Just be… soft.’ 

‘I know,’ hissed Greg. 

‘I don’t think you do,’ sighed Dimmock. ‘Listen to me, Lestrade. You were so in love, and you were a fool, a blind fool, to listen to anything Mycroft said to you. You are not a rebel, you are not a symbol of resistance and rebellion, you are nothing more than a simple man who fell in love.’ 

Greg hated how true that actually was. 

But he wanted to be a fighter. 

Perhaps too much. 

But Mycroft had a vision of the future. He had a vision that Greg wanted to make a reality. He wanted to build that world just as Mycroft would have. He wasn’t a fool, though. He knew that world wouldn’t be built, not by him. But perhaps he could encourage others to try. 

If he was a symbol. 

But he couldn’t even do that, anymore. Otherwise Magnussen would have him killed. 

Why was he fighting it, again?

Suddenly, the platform under his feet shook, and raised Greg up. Greg maintained his balance, fortunately, just as the light fell over his face. It flooded his eyes, and he had to blink in the brightness of it, for just a moment. 

They were outside, in the bright light of day, at the end of the Tribute Parade. The sound of the crowds washed over Greg, too loud and too overwhelming, for just a moment. 

For a moment, he wished for the silent, quiet serenity of his room. 

The crowds lined both sides of the Parade, and only the space at the very front was left for the large stage that had been set up. The President was standing in the front, by a podium, his arms spread wide in welcome to Greg. He was a thin, reedy, long-limbed man with a cruel smile and small eyes, hidden behind neat, small, spectacles. He wore a suit, himself, a blue pinstripe that hung off his form. 

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Victor of the 74th Hunger Games; Gregory Lestrade!’ 

The roar of the crowds grew even louder, a roiling mass of noise that seemed a little like it had a life of it’s own, almost. It rolled over Greg, embroiling the world in sound. 

Magnussen spread his hands, and bade the crowd to quiet down, a little, waiting for them to be silent before continuing on. 

‘The valour, and honour, of this Tribute cannot be denied. He has shown great courage, and integrity in the face of hardship…’ 

Greg remained still. 

The sound of Magnussen’s speech faded into the background, a great deal. It all just faded away until there was nothing but a numb sense of defeat, a sense of this never-ending battle. 

Soon, Magnussen was turning around. Greg was ushered into a seat by a smiling, made-up Capitol official. It was a large thing, a throne of silver an gold, rather gaudy in its construction. Greg had always thought so - it was the same chair every year for every Victor. 

Magnussen reached out a hand, stepped forwards to take the crown off the small, velvet cushion, and place it gently on Greg’s head. 

It was considerable heavy, with enough gold and precious stones to feed not only him, but John and everyone he knew for a year. And he couldn’t sell it. As a Victor, it was unique to him, made for _him,_ and if he went to a function without it, it was a faux pas. 

Apparently. 

Magnussen took Greg’s hand. The President’s hand was small, and slightly slimy, and Greg wanted to drop it, immediately. 

Magnussen was looking at him. 

‘Congratulations, Mr Lestrade,’ said the man, smoothly. ‘I am certain you shall prove to be quite the valuable Victor in years to come.’ 

Greg had to physically suppress a shudder. 

This close, Magnussen had a foul scent. He smelt a little like fish, and rotting flesh of some sort of animal. It was covered over, loosely, by a flowery, pungent scent that cloyed in Greg’s nostrils. 

Greg’s hand was raised over his head in victory, and he smiled the smile he had been told to smile. It wasn’t his grin. It wasn’t the one Mycroft liked, or the friendly one he had made use of often to get his way. It was a false smile, a smile all of teeth, designed for the Capitol and only the Capitol. 

Soon enough, he was led offstage, and into a waiting car, to various screams of Capitol women. 

He still felt numb. Two days, and he had gone through the entire thing in a daze. Which was fine, really. Greg couldn’t care less. 

The scenery of the Capitol went by, no more captivating than it had been the first time. Where it stood was a contrast with the Arena. 

The Arena had been similar to the Capitol. Towering spires, lovely roads, manicured gardens. But the Arena was overgrown, a stark reminder of a city gone to seed. The Capitol was not. 

But it was fragile. A moment of abandonment, and it would turn into the inhospitable waste of the Arena. That was always a good thing to remember. 

***

Greg had been shoved straight out of one outfit, and into another. This one was a dark grey suit, with silver flourishes and details, just around the edges. It was still slightly reminiscent of armour. 

Funny, that. 

Caesar was delighted to see him. 

‘Gregory Lestrade, as I live and breathe!’ he announced, excitement in his voice. The studio in which they sat was even more packed than before, painted faces grinning eagerly like a pack of hyenas up at him. 

‘Yes,’ Greg smiled. ‘I’m rather thankful I’m _still_ breathing, but to each their own, I suppose.’ 

Caesar threw his head back, and laughed, and Greg grinned his Capitol grin. It got easier the more he did it. 

‘Please, please, take a seat,’ gestured Caesar, sitting. Greg followed suit, sitting down in the chair that had been proscribed to him. ‘So,’ Caesar began, raising a brow. ‘We have a lot to discuss, you and I?’ 

‘Well,’ Greg grinned, ‘The weather’s lovely, isn’t it?’ 

Again, Caesar chuckled. ‘That it is, my dear Silver Knight, that it is!’ 

The audience was also laughing, uproariously. 

‘So, the Games.’ 

‘The Games,’ Greg repeated, refusing to grimace. 

‘Congratulations.’ 

‘Thank you.’ 

Caesar paused, a look of mock confusion coming across his face. ‘I shan’t lie to you, Greg Lestrade, I’m searching desperately for a way to bring up the elephant in the room.’ 

‘Maybe you could start by pointing to the elephant… maybe offering it some peanuts? I’ve heard elephants quite like peanuts.’ 

The audience laughed, delightedly. 

Greg cast a look into the audience, and saw Dimmock, sitting between Clara and Calypso. Clara was smiling, softly, sadly, and Dimmock had two thumbs up.

‘Oh, you are a cheeky one!’ announced Caesar, delighted. 

Greg shrugged. ‘One of my charms, I suppose.’ 

‘Ah yes, your charms. They are rather legendary at this point?’ 

‘What, _really?’_ gasped Greg, sarcastically.

Caesar nodded. ‘Well, you managed to charm and seduce Mycroft Holmes. Quite spectacularly, if I do say so myself. Let’s take a look, ladies and gents.’ 

Caesar gestured over to one of the screens, and played a clip of Greg and Mycroft’s first kiss, in the flooded skyscraper. 

Greg turned away, after just a moment, looking down at his hands, at the audience, anywhere. No one noticed. Everyone was captivated by the screen, the image of him and Mycroft. 

That he couldn’t look at. 

‘Wonderful,’ Caesar announced, clapping his hands together. 

The audience joined in. 

Greg smiled, ingratiatingly, and wanted to be ill. 

‘The Silver Knight and the Great Tactician. A romance for the ages, I do believe.’ 

‘Well, my father once told me that once in a lifetime, you meet someone. And that someone is the most special person you will ever set your eyes on. They are your true love, your soulmate. Mycroft _was_ my soulmate.’ 

Caesar wiped a tear from his eyes. ‘That is simply beautiful. And simply tragic. In his last few hours, Mr Lestrade, I believe all of us listened to him promise you the world.’ 

‘Yes,’ Greg smiled, fondly, ‘He did promise me the world. He had given me the world, hasn’t he?’

Caesar nodded, tears actually pooling in his cheeks. Of course, it didn’t move his make up one bit. ‘Yes, Mr Lestrade, he rather has. Wouldn’t you agree, ladies and gents?’

An uproar of _yes_ rose from the crowd. 

‘Mycroft sacrificed himself for me,’ Greg murmured, only just loud enough for the audience to hear him. ‘He made it such that my life shall never be wanting. I will get to go home to my son, and make his fondest dreams come true. I will go home and he will not.’ 

‘Tragic,’ sighed Caesar. ‘Just so tragic. There are many here in the Capitol who were simply devastated by the turn of events, as were many in the Districts. Do you have anything you would want to say to them?’ 

‘Of course,’ replied Greg. ‘We may mourn him together, as one nation. He was my love, my best friend, he gave me _everything_ he possibly could.’ 

‘We all saw that,’ Caesar said. ‘We all hope for love in our lives such as the love that the two of you shared. It shall serve as inspiration for decades to come, I do believe.’ 

‘I think you might be right, Caesar,’ said Greg, sadly, looking out into the audience. They were all captivated by him, the women sighing and even the men watching with wide eyes. 

Good. 

‘Mycroft was an incredible man. He was magnificent, he could do anything and everything so long as he set his mind to it. I loved him with everything in me and I think I shall continue to love him for as long as I live.’ 

The audience let out an audible sigh, at that.

The worst part was, he shouldn’t be saying this here. This was a betrayal, of sorts. These confessions - they should be whispered late at night, under the covers, cuddled up to the one you were saying them to. Greg wanted that with Mycroft He wanted there to be a day in their future where they curled up under the covers next to one another and whispered in each others’ ears that they loved each other. They loved each other more than the breath in their lungs and the stars in the sky. 

***

The train ride home was excruciating. People looking at him sympathetically on his way there, calling out to him. 

Let me heal your woes. Let me fix you. 

God, Greg hated this. 

Calypso sat across from him, her eyes watching him carefully. Dimmock had nodded to him once, approving of his actions. He had tried to start a conversation, at one point, and Greg had ignored him, in favour of gazing out the window, and watching the ride go by. 

Lovely trees and a desert washed past his window, and Greg saw none of it. 

He was just impatient for it to be over. 

Soon enough, they pulled into the station, grinding to a halt, slowly. Greg was led to the door, lined up behind Calypso and Dimmock, prepared to play the returning hero. 

The Odysseus, arriving home for victory. 

The doors swung open, and the first thing Greg saw was John. 

John’s dark blue eyes, happy and exultant at Greg’s return, nervous about Greg’s sadness over Mycroft’s death, but overwhelmingly ecstatic. 

And Greg leaned down, and swept John off his feet, swept his small son into his arms, pressing his face into those familiar blond locks. 

Breathing in that familiar scent. 

John hugged back just as hard. 

The hole in his chest was still there. It wasn’t going to be repaired, no matter how much love was pouring into it. 

But John was here, in his arms, and for a single moment, it was enough. 


	31. Spoils

_Five Months Later_

‘Hey John!’ called Greg, into the house. Their house was still small, yes, but it didn’t need to be big. Not for just John and him. But it had been renovated. The walls were now made from bricks, rather than mud, and they had a toilet _inside_ the house. Not to mention a shower, and a tub. 

Greg and John had seperate bedrooms, now. 

But even then, John would often just clamber into bed with Greg, anyway. His bedroom was growing dusty, as John clung to Greg through the night, as if he was scared Greg was going to leave again. 

Which was fair. 

Sometimes, Greg woke up, and he would think he was back in the Arena. Greg thought he was going to leave again sometimes, too. 

Those times were bad, but Greg and John would just cling to one another, and soothe one another’s fears. 

They were getting there, slowly but surely. 

And Greg couldn’t deny the enormous hole in his chest. No matter how much he had wished it, no matter how many times he had tried to close his eyes and _not_ think of Mycroft; Mycroft hands, Mycroft’s face, Mycroft’s eyes… they never went away. 

Greg was both thankful for that, and saddened by it. He didn’t want to forget Mycroft. He _never_ wanted to forget Mycroft. But he did wish that the hole in his chest would ache just that little bit less. 

Not helping matters, there were replays quite literally every other day of Mycroft and Greg’s “epic romance” as it had been dubbed by the Capitol. 

A dubious honour, at that. 

‘John, Molly’s almost here, you gotta go to school!’ 

‘Yeah, coming,’ replied John, through the house, scrambling through the new door into the kitchen. Greg quickly handed his son his breakfast, walking around the counter to give John a hug. 

John returned it, pressing his face into Greg’s midsection, sharply. 

Greg knelt down, just as he did every morning, and embraced John more firmly. ‘I’m not going to go anywhere while you’re at school, my little soldier. I promise.’ 

‘I know,’ John whispered back, clinging to Greg tightly. ‘I just sometimes get scared, is all.’ 

Greg chuckled, a little. ‘I feel the same, John,’ he said, as softly as he could muster. ‘Sometimes I get scared, too. I get scared ‘cause I feel like I’m back in the Arena, sometimes. But it’ll be alright, eventually.’ 

There was silence between them, for a moment. A soft, warm, comforting silence, that let Greg just simply revel in being here. Here, in a place he’d never thought he’d be in, two months after the Games. The Games were _over._ He’d _won._ He was back here, with John. 

That was what mattered. 

Not Mycroft’s dead eyes, haunting him every time he closed his lids. Not Mycroft’s hands, ghosting over his skin as he slept. 

There was a knock on the door. 

Immediately, Greg got to his feet, and ushered John towards the door, swiping the bag he’d packed for Molly off the counter. 

‘Molls, how are you?’ asked Greg, as soon as he opened the door. Molly beamed up at him, constantly delighted, and almost always surprised to see him. 

As if sometimes she couldn’t believe it, herself. 

Fair enough. Sometimes Greg couldn’t really believe it, either. 

But here he was. 

‘I’m great, Greg, how are you doing?’ 

‘Oh, you know,’ he shrugged. ‘Slogging away. Have to muck out the barn again today. You know, it almost makes me wish for the Capitol!’ 

That was the first joke he’d made about it. 

It did ring a little hollow between them, but eventually, Molly gave a tentative giggle. Greg grinned, and chuckled himself, ruffling a hand through John’s hair. 

John didn’t say anything, didn’t make a sound. 

‘Anyway, you have a good day at school, alright? You too, Molls. Oh, and before I forget,’ he quickly handed over the bag of food. ‘Have this. On me.’ 

Molly reached out, and took the bag, happy for the extra food. Now he had plenty, there wasn’t anyone who protested him giving some away. He had enough to feed himself and John for the rest of their lives, and their children’s lives on top of that. 

‘Thanks, Greg,’ she smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. 

‘No worries, Molls. Now you’d better be going, or else you’re gonna be late.’ Greg smiled, and tapped John on the bum, shooing him out the door. John clung to Greg one final time, before letting go, only a little hesitation in his attitude over the whole thing. 

At least he was walking out the door. 

The first three weeks after Greg got back, John had refused to leave his side. He had refused to go to school, even as Greg tried to coerce him into doing it. 

Not that Greg had tried particularly hard. 

He had the constant need not only to be in John’s eyeshot at all times, but to have John in _his_ eyeshot at all times. It had been horribly restricting, for the first few weeks. 

Even now, there was a slight longing to just follow John to school. 

But he couldn’t do that. 

He had things to do. He had asked Sally only yesterday for help with herding the cows and then caring for their hooves, which needed to be sanded down today. 

Sighing, Greg turned back to walk into the house, skirting the counter to poke through the pantry. 

It was full, of course. Lovely, freshly baked bread, salted meats, even some chocolate and other condiments adorned the shelves. He didn’t need anything. Not anymore. 

The bathrooms and bedrooms were stocked, his sitting room had new sofas and new chairs and everything was in order. He had even been given access to books, and had gotten ahold of a bookshelf. Taking pride of place, though, was the small, slightly ratty copy of the fairy tales that were John’s and Greg’s favourite, sitting there. 

Quietly, Greg stepped over to it, taking up the book and flipping through the pages until he reached the page he loved he best. Over the last few weeks, his favourite page had changed. Originally, it had been the gorgeous illustration of the Silver Knight slaying the dragon, but now? 

Now it was the illustration a few pages later. It wasn’t as glamorous, or as showy, but it still had the beautiful silver detailing on the Knight’s armour, and the lovely colours. 

Taking pride of place was, of course, the Silver Knight himself, on bended knee, in front of a tall throne. Standing in front of that throne, and holding out a sword to bless the Knight, was the King. Done in regal purples with a dashing cape and beautiful face, the King stood before the Knight, not only blessing him, but treating him as an equal in honour, in many ways. 

It had grown to be Greg’s favourite illustration, and he had run his fingers over it time and time again. He could even see the slight marks from the oil on his hand over the King’s cheek. 

Before the Games, he had always considered this illustration a bit ubiquitous, a bit arbitrary, in many ways. It made the Knight less brave, somehow. 

But that wasn’t the truth of it, not at all. This illustration was the Knight and the King, together. The Knight had still done the things the pages said he had done. He had still slayed the dragon, but here was peace. Here was a single moment of integrity and honour between two men of note. 

‘Greg?’ 

Sally was standing in the open door of the house, looking over at him with one eyebrow raised. Her curly hair was up in a ponytail behind her head; no-nonsense. Greg could respect that of her. 

He crinkled his eyes in a smile when he saw her. 

‘Are you ready?’ she asked him, softly, returning the smile. 

‘Yeah, ‘course,’ replied Greg. Gently, he replaced the book, but not before one final stroke over the face of the King. Sally smiled, again, and then waited for him, just out on the stoop of the house. 

‘So, the cattle hooves?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Greg replied, grinning easily. ‘Someone didn’t take care of them while I was away.’ 

‘Hilarious,’ drawled Sally. ‘You know, at the time, there were a few more pressing matters to worry about.’ 

‘What?’ gasped Greg, mockingly outraged, ‘You mean to tell me that the _Games_ were more important than Bess’s ingrown toenail?’ 

Sally let out a laugh, and hit him fondly on the arm. It wasn’t gentle, but Greg was certainly made of sterner stuff. She pretended to touch her finger to her chin in thought. ‘Let me think… yes.’ 

‘Aww, Sally, I never knew you cared so much! Should Maya be worried?’ 

‘No, she shouldn’t be, you old bastard!’ Sally shrieked, in horror. ‘I would never steal you away from your pillow.’ 

Greg rolled his eyes, nudging her on the arm as they moved around the hill, over the fence and towards the doors of the barn. 

Sally grinned over at him, as he opened the barn doors. Gladstone barked around their feet, gambolling about. ‘Go get ‘em, Gladstone,’ Greg gestured, prompting the puppy to practically roll inside, and bark at the cattle until they began to move out of the barn, into the fresh air. 

Immediately a wave of disgusting cow manure washed over Greg. Greg wilted, and shuddered in disgust. The smell never got any better. ‘Ugh,’ he grumbled, ‘This is disgusting.’ 

Sally just rolled her eyes. ‘You should come see my sheep pen at some point. That’s even more disgusting now that one of the girls is pregnant.’ 

‘Oh, really? That’s wonderful news, Sal, I’m happy for you.’ Sally rolled her eyes. 

‘It’s not like it’s _my_ child,’ she retorted. ‘But it’ll be good to have that bit of extra income.’ 

Greg nodded, and gestured her into the barn, following after her to the fenced off area at the backs and tugging out the stools and the tools for cleaning out the hooves on the cattle. 

Sally took her fair share, scooping up another of the small stools and another set of picks and things for the hooves. 

They stepped back outside, taking up spots just near the edge of the barn. Greg let out a loud whistle, and Gladstone barked, gesturing the cattle over as if they were about to get milked. Instead, when they got close enough, Greg and Sally began to take up their hooves, picking and sanding away at them in order to keep them healthy. 

‘How is Maya?’ asked Greg. ‘It’s been about a week since we’ve caught up, I think.’ 

‘Yeah, about that,’ said Sally. ‘We should come round.’ 

‘Mm,’ hummed Greg, agreeing. ‘We could do tonight, I reckon.’ 

‘Don’t you remember?’ asked Sally, looking up in surprise, ‘President Magnussen is doing an address tonight. I can’t remember what it was about, again.’ 

Greg furrowed his brow. ‘Neither can I.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, we can just watch it all together. Sign of solidarity, and all that.’ 

‘Yeah,’ nodded Sally, agreeing. 

‘When I go get John this afternoon, I’ll ask Molly if she can come around. We’ll get some meat going and things.’ 

‘Oh, you’ve got one of those fancy oven things, now, haven’t you?’ Greg nodded, smiling at her. 

‘Mm, I do. Recently got it, actually. Makes cooking meat much easier than having to do it over a fire. Still do like the fire method, though.’ 

They lapsed into silence. 

A moment later, Sally sighed, sitting up, and stretching her back. 

‘So we’re not going to talk about it, then?’ she asked, after a moment. 

‘About… what?’ asked Greg, trying for cluelessness, and knowing that it wasn’t going to be coming across as successfully as perhaps he’d like it to. 

Sally rolled her eyes, and sighed. With that tiny look, she conveyed to Greg what she thought of his futile attempt to obfuscate. Greg himself then sighed. 

‘Sal…’ he began, softly. ‘We don’t have to talk about it. We don’t ever need to talk about it. I went away for a while, then I came back.’ 

‘Greg, I want to talk about it,’ she whispered. ‘I want to make sure you’re okay. I saw… I don’t know what I saw. I just know I saw.’ 

Greg didn’t really know how to respond. He sighed, again, letting go of his most recent hoof, and letting the cow who owned it wander off, mooing as she went. ‘Do you want the truth, or do you want the lie? The lie is much prettier, if it’s any consolation.’ 

‘I want the truth, Greggie,’ Sally replied, her voice gentle. ‘I don’t really care how hard it is.’ 

‘Alright, Sally, the truth, then. I’m not okay. I’m not ever gonna be okay. I had to… I had to do things in the Arena. Things I’m not proud of and I’m never gonna be proud of them. I’m the reason that one little girl is dead, never coming back to her Mum, who hates my guts, by the way. I’m the reason Mycroft is dead, Sally. If it wasn’t for me, then he would have changed the world.’

Greg stood, and began to pace away, down the hill. Sally got up, and followed him, as he quickly moved over the fence and towards a grassy knoll. Gently, he sat down, and patted the spot beside him, smiling gently at Sally. 

‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ Sally murmured, but took a seat next to him. 

‘Do what?’ asked Greg, truly confused this time. 

‘You’re being stupidly brave, all the time. It’s okay not to be okay, you know that, don’t you, Greg?’ asked Sally, her eyes dark, and looking down at the bottom of the hill. 

‘I do,’ he replied. ‘Which was why I confessed to you.’ 

‘But you always put-up this front. You don’t cry about shit, and it drives me up the fucking wall. I saw you cry, in the Arena, with Mycroft. So why are you being so strong now?’ 

‘I’m not being strong,’ confessed Greg. ‘I know I’m not, Sal. I’m just shoving it away into a box and it makes it easier. God, it makes it so much easier to deal with because no matter what I do there’s this great big fucking hole in the middle of my chest and it just won’t go away. He was in that hole, don’t you see? He filled that hole. Now he’s gone, and I don’t…’

Greg sighed, and took a deep breath, before continuing. 

‘I felt for him what you feel for Maya. We had… something, Sal. I know it was quick, I know I only knew him for a few days, but I just… I couldn’t help but think about how our lives could have been. We could have been incredible, Sal.’ 

‘I know, Greggie, and I don’t doubt you. I saw it for myself, in the Arena. You looked at him like all you could see was him.’ 

‘All I could see, for quite some time, was him. He did so much for me, Sal, and I can’t repay him. I can never repay him.’ 

‘Will you tell me about him?’ she requested, looking at him imploringly. 

Greg let out a chuckle. ‘You would have liked him, I reckon,’ he murmured. ‘He was a bit like you. He was a rebel, through and through. He wanted to change the world.’ 

‘I know,’ Sally said, smiling. ‘We all heard him say it. He promised you the whole world, said he was going to build a new world for you and for John and for his brother.’ 

‘I believed him. Sal, if anyone could have done it, he could have. He could have brought down the Capitol if he wanted to, and the Games was his way in. Worming his way right into the heart of the Capitol.’ 

Sally smiled. ‘You reckon he would have let us peasants into his new world?’ 

Greg grinned. ‘Well, I’d have kicked his arse from beyond the grave if he hadn’t.’ 

‘I have full faith you would have,’ she teased. 

There was a silence, between them. Greg knew it was a little awkward. 

‘Greg,’ Sally began, a moment later. ‘I don’t… there’s something wrong with us, isn’t there?’ 

Greg looked down at his hands. ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘I think there is. I just… there’s a disconnect, I know, Sal. There’s this huge gap between who I used to be and who I am now, and I don’t know how to make it better. I don’t know how to fit in, anymore.’ 

Sally leaned over, and rested her head on his shoulder, just like she used to when they were younger. ‘You’ll always fit. You’ll always have your place, Greg. We’re all just waiting for you to take it back.’ 

‘I know,’ murmured Greg. ‘And I am trying, I promise. I just… I feel like I didn’t really understand. Though… I reckon you’ll be glad to know you’ve won me over to the dark side.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘Just… I’m angry, Sal. I’m really angry. I want him back so much, and the Capitol is the reason I can never have him again. It makes me angry, so angry.’ 

‘I know,’ whispered Sally. ’It’s always made me angry, how they take things from us and we never even get a say.’ 

Greg took a deep breath. ‘Before… I don’t know. Before I went to the fucking Games, I feel like I was stupid. I didn’t want to do anything. Mostly cause I didn’t have the power to, and I didn’t want to risk John in the process. But now I do want to do something.’ 

‘So do I,’ said Sally. 

‘I just, I don’t know how.’ 

There was an abrupt silence. 

‘Mycroft would know how,’ Greg commented, a moment later. ‘He’d know what I had to do with all this power that’s been dumped into my lap. He’d know how I can change the world, make it a better place for John and you, and Molly and Sam and Alex and Lottie… and just everyone.’ 

‘There’s something I should tell you,’ murmured Sally. ‘Something was passed to me, through the grapevine. I’m friends with a Peacekeeper down near the Market. He’s friends with a Peacekeeper in another District. In District Five.’ 

‘What’s going on in District Five?’ 

‘Greg, there’s a rebellion. There’s people in that District who are putting up a fight. They’re putting up a fight, Greg, a real fight, against the Capitol. They’re all pushing back. That’s what I reckon tonight’s announcement is gonna be about.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Greg, weakly. 

‘And Greg… I think they’re using you as a symbol.’ 

‘Me?!’ yelped Greg, looking over at her in surprise. 

‘Well… they’re using the Silver Knight. Apparently they’ve got your little sword symbol painted on walls and as symbols of the rebellion and things.’ 

‘Yeah?’ asked Greg, quietly. 

‘Yeah, I think so.’ 

***

Greg smiled as John rocketed straight out of the gates of his small school in the corner of the town, and straight into Greg’s arms. 

‘Greg, Greg, you’re here!’ John exclaimed, excitedly. Greg grinned, and ruffled the smaller blond’s hair. 

‘Where else would I be, little soldier?’ asked Greg, lifting John up and whirling him around in the air. 

John shrugged, but clung to Greg all the same. Greg indulged him, hiking the smaller boy up onto his hip, and nodding at parents who walked past. 

There were, of course, the usual stares. Everyone stared at him, now. 

Greg had gotten used to it, at this point. 

‘How was your day?’ asked Greg, conversationally. 

‘Great,’ replied John, grinning. ‘We made sculptures in Art class today, and I made a little sword like the pendant I made for you.’ 

‘Really?’ Greg smiled, ‘Where is it?’ 

‘Oh, it has to dry. I have to go back and get it tomorrow.’ 

Greg nodded, seriously. ‘Ah, that’s good the—‘ 

‘Hello, sorry, are you Greg Lestrade?’ 

An older man walked up to him, his own daughter in tow. He had a balding head, and a moustache. His hair was an odd shade of pale blond, that complimented his slightly ruddy face. He was of a larger frame, indicating he was one of the more wealthy District Ten citizens.Greg internally sighed, but plastered a grin on his face. 

‘Yes, that’s me, how can I help you?’ 

The man held out his hand for Greg to shake, which Greg did so, managing to hide his reluctance quite well if he could say so himself. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Lestrade. I’m Walter Morstan, this is my daughter Mary.’ 

‘Lovely to meet you, Mr Morstan.’ 

‘So sorry to take your time,’ Greg shook his head, while inside he was literally begging to be able to leave. John had gone entirely stiff and quiet in his arms, and was looking away from the other man. ‘I just wanted to say, congratulations, and I’m very sorry for your losses.’ 

‘It’s fine,’ shrugged Greg. He was used to the sentiment, at this point. 

‘And my son… he thinks you’re inspiring. He would have hated me if I’d seen you and not talked to you.’ 

Greg smiled, tightly. The man continued to ramble, for a little while, and Greg didn’t really want to have to continue to have to actually interact with the man, but he seemed determined to start a conversation. 

Replying with minimal, noncommittal answers, Greg tried to keep up with the conversation, but found his mind wandering off. 

These people, they all expressed the same thing, sorrow over his losses, congratulations, that sort of thing. Then, of course, they wanted to talk about the tactics of it. What he’d done right, and if he’d teach them. 

It wasn’t actually a Game. He wanted to scream that. 

But some people… they just didn’t see it like that. And this man looked like he was one of the higher class people of the District. The ones who didn’t really know what it was like, whose children weren’t in any danger of being Reaped. 

‘—but you can be honest with me.’ 

Greg looked up, in surprise, seeing the man leaning in and smiling as if he was in on some great conspiracy. Furrowing his brow, Greg pursed his lips. ‘What do you mean?’ 

‘That whole thing with you and Mycroft Holmes, that horrid boy from District One… Well, it was a very good survival tactic.’ 

Greg knew his hands were tightening around John. John didn’t even protest, and was watching his face with interest. Greg smiled, tightly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, sorry Mr Morstan.’ 

‘You guys weren’t actually in love, were you? That was just to get the Capitol’s favour. Come on, you can tell me the truth, it’s fine. No one here’s gonna rat you out. You won! That’s what matters.’ 

Greg couldn’t take it anymore. 

Turning sharply on one heel, he walked away from Mr Morstan, easily stepping out of earshot of this stupid, spoilt man. Behind him, he knew that the man was blustering, but ignored it. ‘Well,’ he said, to John, ‘He was a bit of an idiot, wasn’t he?’ 

‘Yeah,’ said John, agreeing softly. ‘Some people are kinda dumb, aren’t they?’ 

‘Do you know that girl? Mary Morstan?’ 

John nodded, and wriggled out of Greg’s grip, slipping gently to the floor before taking Greg’s hand and skipping, tugging Greg along with him. Greg smiled. ‘I know her,’ John shrugged. ‘She’s not very nice.’ 

‘No?’

‘Nah. I usually sit with Alex, Lottie and Molly at lunch.’ 

‘That’s good,’ Greg murmured, ruffling John’s hair. ‘They’re all coming over for dinner tonight, I reckon.’ 

John smiled, excited and delighted. ‘Cool!’ 

Greg let out a huff of laughter. 

***

Later that evening, just as Greg had finished up making dinner for everyone, the rest of their little group bundled in through the front door. 

‘Alex! Lottie!’ reprimanded Sally, ‘Take your shoes off, or I’ll make you clean all Greg’s floors!’ 

Alex and Lottie could be heard taking off their shoes, and Greg made his way out into the hallway, right where everyone was coming through into the living room. 

‘Hey Molls, hey Sal,’ he greeted, giving each girl a hug. ‘Maya, it’s good to see you.’ 

Sally rolled her eyes, and nudged him on the shoulder. ‘You’ve become all proper, Greggie, it’s weird.’ 

Greg nudged her right back. ‘Yeah, well, you’ve come to eat me out of house and home. The least I can do is try and install you lot of peasants with a little bit of manners.’

Sally rolled her eyes, and took Maya’s hand, leading the other girl over to the table, where Greg had laid out all the food. John was sitting up there already, Alex and Lottie pulling out their own chairs. 

Greg was left with the spot at the head of the table, Sally on his left and John on his right. Already, John was digging into the food on the table, the other kids following suit practically immediately. Molly helped Sam grab some before the other kids wolfed it all up, and Maya and Sally both began to help themselves at a little more reasonable pace. 

Greg chuckled, and pulled some of the food towards himself. 

‘Greg,’ said John, holding out his knife, ‘Can you cut mine for me?’

‘Course, little soldier,’ replied Greg, leaning over and quickly slicing up John’s sizeable hunk of meat. ‘You sure you can eat all that?’ 

‘Yes!’ replied John, indignantly. ‘I’m not a baby.’ 

‘I never said you were,’ replied Greg. ‘I just wanna make sure.’ 

John rolled his eyes, and set into his food right away. 

‘How’s your Mum, Molls? I saw her down at the Market a few days ago.’ 

‘Yeah, she’s fine,’ replied Molly, smiling softly. ‘She’s getting back on her feet, I reckon. Soon, she might be able to go get a job, I think.’ 

‘Well, until then, don’t be afraid to come and get what you need, alright? Even if it’s in the middle of the night and you gotta break in through my window.’ 

‘I know,’ smiled Molly. ‘Thanks, Greg.’ 

‘Hey!’ spluttered Sally. ‘Why don’t we get the same offer?’ 

‘Because if I let you have free range over my pantry, Sal, I wouldn’t have any food left!’ 

Sally rolled her eyes, and nudged him in the side. ‘Didn’t your Dad ever teach you to be nice to ladies?’ 

‘Yeah, he did,’ smirked Greg. ‘But the only ladies I see here are Molly and Maya.’ He bowed his head to them. ‘Ladies, Sir Greg Lestrade, the Silver Knight, at your service.’ 

Molly and Maya both let out giggles, and Sally huffed, and folded her arms, but not before whacking Greg in the arm. Greg yelped in mock hurt, and glared at her with accusing eyes. ‘That’s what you get. Not a lady, my arse.’ 

‘That, right there, I think is why you’re not a lady,’ murmured Maya, but leaned over to stroke her girlfriend’s arm, in a soft gesture of placation. 

Sally huffed, and leant back in her chair. 

Greg smiled at her, cheekily. 

He could get used to this. Yes, there was a great big fucking hole punched right through his chest, but maybe it could be patched over, given time. It was still going to be there, worn ragged and aching around the edges, but maybe, just maybe, with enough of this, then the hole might just be covered up. There might be enough laughs and enough small but meaningful conversations between himself and those he called his friends and family, that it would patch over. 

If only Mycroft could sit here at the table, and stroke his arm, whisper softly to him like Maya was whispering to Sally. If only Mycroft could smile and chuckle and be there for all of them. His brother could sit next to John, so John could have a friend his own age. They could all sit around this dining table and Sally would love Mycroft. John would love Mycroft. 

If only. 

But it was never going to happen. 

And right now, he needed to remember that. He needed to keep it together, because there were people who needed him. Mycroft didn’t need him anymore - not that the Career had ever really needed him. 

Sally looked at him, her eyes penetrating. 

‘Alright?’ she asked, quietly. 

‘I’m gonna be,’ he replied, perfectly honestly. 

She smiled, at the honest, and bowed her head, returning to her food.

For a moment, Greg let it all just wash over him. He let all the conversations filter through his mind. 

John was talking to Lottie about sculpture, and about clay and things. Animatedly, John was describing what he’d made at school today, and Greg felt himself immediately flushing with pride over it. What could he say? He was a prideful man. 

At the other end of the table, Molly was smiling at Sam, and helping the youngest boy cut up his food, and spooning it into his mouth when he couldn’t quite manage it.

Beside him, Sally and Maya were quietly talking to each other, their head bowed and pressed together. Every so often they would take a few bites of the food, and then continue with their whisperings. 

Greg didn’t really want to think about what it was they were discussing, he could only hope it wasn’t going to be painful for him. 

Then, Greg felt the gaze on him. 

Looking up, he realised that Alex was sitting next to Lottie, between Lottie and Sam. He wasn’t eating, just quietly picking at his food. He was looking at Greg, and as soon as he realised Greg had caught him staring, he looked back down at his plate. 

He looked… guilty.

Greg got to his feet, immediately, and placed down his cutlery. John looked up at him questioningly. 

‘What’s wrong?’ asked John, his voice soft. Greg bent to whisper in his ear. 

‘I’m just gonna talk to Alex. Don’t worry,’ he replied. Standing upright again, he walked over to where Alex was sitting, and gestured for the younger boy to stand, and led him out into the sitting room. 

Gently, he let the other boy climb up onto the sofa, and stare at him with solemn eyes, before he took a seat himself. The sounds of the others in the dining room would hopefully serve to mask their discussion. 

‘Are you alright?’ asked Greg, softly, raising an eyebrow. 

‘Yeah,’ said Alex, looking away. 

Greg sighed. ‘It doesn’t look like you are to me.’ 

‘Well, I am,’ replied Alex, a little hotly. 

‘How about I talk then?’ Greg asked, quietly. Alex didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. ‘I know you feel guilty about what happened, Alex,’ Greg murmured. ‘I know that you feel like it’s your fault, but I volunteered.’ 

‘I know!’ Alex exclaimed. ‘I know you volunteered, Sally told me. She told me you chose to go in the Games and that means it’s not my fault. But…’ 

‘But?’

There was a moment of silence. Greg watched Alex, seeing that he was warring with himself. He could be patient. 

‘It still kinda feels like it is,’ admitted Alex, softly. ‘I know you volunteered, and all that, it just feels like if I hadn’t gotten sick and stuff, and if you hadn’t felt as responsible for me cause I’m not as strong as you or John, then you wouldn’t have had to do all that stuff. You wouldn’t have had to kill that lady, and things.’ 

‘I know,’ murmured Greg, and reached out a hand to rest it on Alex’s shoulder. ‘But it isn’t your fault. Sally was telling the truth. She does that, sometimes. I don’t blame you.’ 

Alex didn’t look convinced. 

‘Look, Alex, let’s put it this way. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Because I volunteered for you, I met the most incredible man I’ve ever met. He was clever and kind and beautiful and wonderful. I would have loved to bring him back with me, but I couldn’t. That is what I regret the most. But I reckon, if I hadn’t gone in there for you, then I’d have never met him. And I think that’s probably the worst thing that could have possibly happened.’ 

‘Mycroft?’ asked Alex, looking up at Greg, finally, a little bit of hope blooming in his eyes. Now, all Greg had to do was encourage it to grow and flourish, to convince Sally’s brother that it wasn’t his fault. 

‘Yes,’ said Greg, softly. ‘I would never have had it any other way. I hate that he’s dead. I wish he wasn’t with everything in me. And I wish that he could have come home with me. But if I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have ever known him. We came from different worlds, and we never would have met if it wasn’t for me volunteering for you.’ 

‘O… okay…’ murmured Alex, still just a little hesitant. 

Greg reached out, just like he would if it was John feeling this way, and enfolded the other boy into a gentle hug. Alex didn’t even protest, just pressing into the hug. 

‘Thanks, Greg,’ said Alex, muffled into Greg’s shoulder. ‘Sorry.’ 

‘Nothing to be sorry for, Alex,’ said Greg, ruffling the boy’s curly, brown hair. 

They sat there a moment longer. Greg comforted Alex, gently, stroking through his hair carefully. Alex was silent. 

But Greg knew he’d made his point. Sally had told him that Alex felt guilty, told him that Alex felt bad about the whole thing. Hopefully now, he was going to be just a little less guilty, a little less hard on himself. 

Suddenly, over on the low table on the far side of the room, the tele screen switched on, the anthem of the Capitol blaring out over the room. Greg jumped, as did Alex, at the sound, and they both looked over at the screen to see the emblem of the Capitol flashing up. 

‘Hey, guys, I think it’s starting!’ Greg called, into the dining room. Immediately, all the others bundled out of the room, and headed straight towards him, taking up spots on the sofa and on the chairs. 

Sally sat next to him on the sofa, letting Alex scramble across her to sit between her and Maya, and relegating Greg to the very end of the sofa. John, instead of taking his own seat, clambered up to have a seat on Greg’s lap. 

The emblem of the Capitol faded, and the face of President Magnussen, sitting on his almost gaudy throne in front of the Presidential Palace at Appledore, flashed onto the screen. He looked just like Greg remembered, with a small face and beady eyes, and a nasty, dead look to his face Greg hated. 

Greg wondered if he still smelt like rotten fish. 

Probably. 

The President spread his hands wide, a placating, winning smile on his face. _‘Citizens of Panem,’_ he began, his voice low and slightly accented. _‘I am so glad to be addressing you on this fine evening. I do hope you are all listening in. I know some of you may be scared, and may not be in the most hospitable of places, right now.’_

‘Told you so,’ said Sally, softly, looking over at him. 

Greg sighed, and didn’t really want to think about what this was going to mean. Not just for him, but for the Capitol. Because there had been rebellions before. Small ones, anyway. And all it had led to was more restrictions on them. 

More Peacekeepers, and more punishments. 

_‘There are nasty rumours going around, that there are undesirables in our wonderful Panem community. There are those who wish to cause us harm, to cause us all harm, and I urge you to take cautions. But trust in your Capitol, and trust in me. We shall reign supreme, as we alwa—‘_

Suddenly, there was a crackle in the transmission. The sound of the President’s soft voice faded out, and the image did as well, to be replaced by static. A staticky, grey image. 

Greg tutted. 

‘Is there something wrong with your tele screen?’ asked Molly, leaning forwards, her brow furrowed. 

‘There shouldn’t be,’ he replied. ‘It should be working fine. It’s brand new.’ 

The static was lightening, Greg realised. It was getting paler and paler, and coalescing into an image. A tall man, with ginger hair and so, so familiar stormy grey eyes. Grey eyes that had captivated him time and time again, and weren’t failing to capture him right this very second. 

A posture as familiar to him as the back of his own hand. 

A three piece suit, utterly impeccable, and an umbrella in his left hand, held as if it were a cane, the other long arm bent behind his back. His face, with its cheekbones and beautiful eyes and curls of gorgeous, dark, gingery hair was so painfully familiar that it ripped a hole through Greg’s chest once more. 

God, it was awful. Why were they doing this to him? 

Was this some sort of torture? Were they doing this as punishment? Because taunting him, taunting him with this picture of Mycroft, it was working. The big hole right through his chest was ripping open, he was tearing apart at the seams just looking at Mycroft’s face. Gazing at his beautiful, entrancing features. 

Basking in the glory of Mycroft looking through a screen at him, capturing him with his eyes and reeling him in. Just like he had done from the moment Greg had first laid eyes on him.

Greg thought it was just a picture. Just a picture, from the past, until Mycroft spoke. 

_‘People of Panem. My name is Mycroft Holmes. Yes, I should be dead. No, I am not_ actually _dead. Here I stand, before you. I am the Great Tactician; you have seen what I can do._

_‘I call to you, People of Panem. I call out to you. The Capitol has held you down for far too long. I say no more. They shall not steal your children, your brothers, your sisters, your lovers and your partners. No more shall they take from you your food and your wealth._

_‘I promised that I would burn this cycle to the ground, this cycle of the Capitol taking and taking and our people being left with nothing. So I call you to arms, my brothers, my sisters. We live today, my brothers, my sisters. We live for the hunted ones. We live for the ones who shall cry out our names._

_‘Panem is ours, my brothers, my sisters. All we must do is reach out and take it.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thirty... there must be something comforting about the number thirty. People always stop at thirty...
> 
> Surprise! Bet you'd thought you'd seen the last of me!
> 
> But come on, seriously? I may be a bit of a literature purist, but I can't resist a good old twist. 
> 
> I do stand by what I said at the end of the last chapter though. There are consequences, and trust me when I say that the way 'A Great Tactician' is planning out to look like, there are going to be consequences. This chapter is mainly meant to be the beginning of the sequel, setting it up. 
> 
> I'm going to warn y'all now, if you think this one was dark at times, then 'A Great Tactician' is going to be even darker. There's going to be a bit of violence, and death, and, of course, my specialty, a bit of political intrigue... ;-) But in all seriousness, it is going to get dark at times, and I will try and warn you about it, but yeah... you get where I'm going. 
> 
> I've almost worked through my plan for 'A Great Tactician', and I think I'll be able to get the first chapter out towards the end of December. Hopefully before the new years, anyway. 
> 
> Hope you all have enjoyed this ride with me, and I hope you all stick around for the next. 
> 
> TH


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